Andy wasn’t himself every time he connected. In those moments, he was one of them again. He wanted to share with Bill the electric charge he felt each time a runner snatched a water cup from his fingers, but when he looked over, he saw that Bill felt it too.
It had been an audacious idea.
“Can you stand that long?”
“Of course, I can!”
“Do you want to stand that long?”
“Nothing to it. Nothing like those marathoners who’ll dart past and keep going. You remember how it is.”
So they stood for hours on Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn, holding paper cups before them for passing runners to snatch from their fingers. Too excited to be exhausted, too busy to be bushed, too wound up to be wound down.
They had met one Saturday morning decades before as callow newbies at a running club meetup. Neither man was a joiner, and neither considered himself much of a runner. But there Andy was. And there Bill was. Standing in a parking lot among strangers, shivering in skimpy plastic clothes, waiting for the run to begin so they could warm up and remember why they weren’t home in bed.
What they found, once their feet began pounding the pavement, was that they weren’t in the same league with the other runners who’d left them behind after the first quarter mile. But Andy and Bill trotted along the sidewalk, and when they came to a corner where they didn’t know they were supposed to turn, a woman from the club waited, stepping in beside them to describe the route ahead, the landmarks, the streets to cross, when they’d know they were nearing the end of the two-mile route. Then this woman left them behind, too. And they found, between panting breaths and begged-for stops, not only that they could navigate the twists and turns, the climbs and descents, the exhaustion and elation, but that they had begun a friendship that ran through all the years of their lives.
“How about a 5K? How about we run that together?”
“How about we do!”
And they did, starting at the front of the line and getting jostled as the faster runners pushed past them. They finished at the back of the pack, startled by what they’d done yet pleased that they had. They marveled at the bounce of their first medals against their crinkly race bibs, the stinging sweat in their eyes, the tightness of their calves, the expansion of their lungs, the racing of their hearts. They munched energy bars and drank electrolyte potions and hobbled with swag bags among the diminishing crowds before the vendor tents beyond the finish arch, thinking themselves no longer the men they were.
“Let’s do this again.”
“Let’s do!”
And over the years, they did, accumulating 5K medals and weekend miles and finding enough air in their lungs to jabber as they trotted, jabbering long after they reached their cars and ought to part ways but didn’t. Andy married a woman who was not a runner and asked Bill to be his best man. Bill remained single; his romantic life, perhaps disreputable, was never a subject for conversation on their runs.
Soon they pushed themselves to 10Ks, which called for more commitment and training. And then they astonished themselves by working up to a half-marathon once a year. Always finishing at the back of the pack, sometimes, especially on the longer races, finding the cheering crowd sparse and the vendors at the after-party already gone before they passed under the finish arch with the last of the also-rans.
“I paid the same entry fee as the fast runners!”
“I deserve the same respect as everyone else!”
But their pique was more momentary show than enduring frustration because they continued to sign up for races, to carpool, to share a hotel room at the far away events, to finish together at the back. They discussed their times, but only because it was, they guessed, what runners did. They counseled each other when it was time to get new shoes, what mental toughness worked for mounting hills, how to stay focused on tedious flats, whether rest or ice or compression or elevation would ease an aching knee or cramping calf. They spoke of novelty 5Ks that might be fun, realizing by their mild disdain that they’d become serious about the sport.
“It’s still me against myself. Still, my feet pounding the pavement.”
“They can dress it up, but if there’s a finish line, I’ll run it.”
The thirsty marathoners came in waves. Released from pace corrals at the start on Staten Island, they moved as amorphous packs, reaching the Fourth Avenue water station where Andy and Bill, and scores of others, waited to hydrate them. Holding by their fingertips cups filled with water until a runner, never breaking stride, snatched it. Sometimes successfully. Sometimes with an explosion of water as a hand grasped too hard or bumped the cup to the ground. Some with fluid grace. Some stumbling. All pushing. Andy and Bill were soaked under their marathon-issued slickers, soaked by the water they extended and by the endorphins their bodies rewarded them. Every snatched cup was an electric charge. Every time.
“Remember the water station at that chocolate run we did?”
“All the newbies standing before it and socializing so we couldn’t get a cup?”
“That’s the one.”
“Nobody’s stopping here.”
They’d accumulated miles together. A few evenings a week. Sunday long runs. Races that sounded fun. Later, that sounded challenging. Working on stamina. On mental rigor. Encouraging more miles, better miles from each other. Crossing finish lines together. Rehydrating with beers as they broke down each stride. Sharing quiet consolation that they were never going to be fast, never going to win age-group medals, never going to escape the back of the pack.
“But I’m out there! I signed up and laced up and showed up.”
“And pushed through every mile, every pain, every doubt!”
They did, with delight and exhaustion and satisfaction. But still, the impossible loomed. Did they dare attempt a full marathon? Was either man runner enough for such a thing?
“It would take serious training.”
“More than just messing around.”
“It would take planning.”
“It would take commitment.”
“Maybe we find an easy one.”
“All flats. No hills. Decent weather. Close to home.”
The event would have to be big enough to be well organized yet small enough not to be intimidating. Good for first timers. Something hard to do, but something they could do. They would look.
Their Sunday runs grew longer. They met during the week to get extra miles. Their minds stretched to accommodate the idea that they could do this thing.
They settled on the marathon in Wichita. A good-sized city. Not too far away. A mostly flat course. They’d stick together and measure their pace. No showboating. No games. They’d cover the miles. They’d hide their exhaustion until they couldn’t. And then they’d share it and coax another block out of each other, to the next lamp post, just around this turn. They’d walk together if they must. Not call attention to it. They’d step into a trot again without comment or chagrin. They’d do this thing because this thing called to be done.
They felt the usual anxiety waiting for the start, multiplied by a thousand but masked as excitement. The starting gun. The huddled mass shuffling toward the starting arch. They paced themselves through the early miles, joking occasionally but mostly saving their breath. They high-fived cheering spectators until they understood that took energy they should save and slowed momentum they should keep. They threw one foot in front of the other. They listened to the hypnotic cadence of their slapping feet. They stopped counting the runners who passed them. They stopped caring about the mile flags. The silly posters. The clanging cowbells. They took water when they could and scratched more determination from their souls and found strength they didn’t know they had.
They finished in the back of the pack. They collected their medals, their swag, their relief and satisfaction. Their legs still worked, but with this mighty achievement suddenly behind them, they lost their words and carried themselves silently to the hotel. Andy rolled his muscles. Bill kneaded his. Andy showered first and found Bill asleep on one of the beds. Bill rose later and showered, finding Andy staring out the window.
“Let’s get something to eat.”
“Good idea.”
“Let’s keep moving so we don’t cramp.”
“Good idea.”
But their weary legs took them no farther than the hotel restaurant.
Neither spoke the words they both knew. There would be no more marathons. They were one and done.
And yet, they had done this thing. They had trained their muscles and trained their minds and overcome their doubts and put themselves in the starting corral and brought themselves across the finish line and they had done it. That was enough.
They returned to 5Ks and 10Ks, still teased a half out of their heart and lungs once a year. They always finished in the back, and they never complained, never apologized, never minded. They were seasoned runners. This was what they did, who they were, why they drew breath. How they filled their years.
“Let’s volunteer for the Kansas City Marathon.”
“We should give back.”
“Be course monitors.”
“Steer and cheer.”
“Or be finish line attendants.”
“And hang medals on weary runners.”
“Or work the registration desk.”
“And hand out bibs and shirts.”
“Stay involved.”
“Stay involved.”
Andy’s knee, now more suited for bouncing his grandchildren, finally convinced him that his running days were over.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” said Bill, who had matched his friend’s slowing pace over the years, thinking himself kind until he realized it was the best he could do as well.
They still met often, reminiscing over beers, rehashing past runs they both remembered well yet never tired of discussing.
“We never qualified for Boston.”
“We never got into New York.”
“We never finished last.”
“Nothing wrong with last.”
“Let’s do something big. Let’s work a water station at one of the big marathons.”
“One last hurrah?”
“No. One more race.”
At the end of their Fourth Avenue shift, which arrived too soon because runners were still coming, they wandered back to their hotel and took naps. And then the last part of their adventure began.
They found their way to Central Park, near the finish line. It would remain in operation until midnight or until the last runner crossed. They wanted to be there, to cheer the also-rans who had done their best. They would cheer for those at the back of the pack.
Guided by the weary army of runners pushing to cover the last mile to the finish arch, they found an open spot to stand at the curb and cheer. And they saw themselves. Runners wearing smiles. Wiping tears. Walking. Limping. Staggering. All determined. All finishing.
And again, they felt they were one of them. They had known the energy at the start of the race. And they knew the exhaustion, the pain at the finish. They knew how deeply these runners were reaching into themselves, finishing in the dark but finishing nonetheless.
Their encouragement might not penetrate the fog these runners pushed through. With only one thing left in their minds, only one goal ahead of them, these runners might not hear Andy and Bill, empathetic compatriots somewhere beyond their tunnel vision. But maybe they weren’t the only also-rans Andy and Bill were celebrating.
“If you want to go fast, go alone.”
“But if you want to go far, go with a friend.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Lamb lives near Kansas City but escapes to his Ozark cabin whenever he gets the chance. His stories have appeared in dozens of literary magazines and his two novels have been published by Blue Cedar Press. He has a third novel forthcoming from Graveside Press.
You can read more about him at paullambwriter.com. He rarely strays far from his laptop.
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About the Author
Very nicely done and witty. Thank you for the good read. Cheers