Once a Runner (29 page)

Cassidy reached the home straight again, thinking: No matter how bad it is, I can't let it lag here, whatever the cost. If I have to lead the whole mothering thing, I can't let it lag here. Then he was walking back by the post for what would be the gun lap. As soon as the pistol cracked, he would feel a tingling on the back of his neck and the adrenaline would shoot through his system again. A quarter of a mile to go and he would become a competitive athlete again, looking around to size up the situation, leaning a little into his stride and once again, even through the numbing haze then taking hold of his body, feeling pride in his strength.

Cassidy walked through the turn, pumping his arms a little, thinking of the nervous crowd noises as the pace began to pick up. Perhaps there would be only a small group left in it now; three, four maybe. But they would all have ambitions; no one ever ran down the back straight of the gun lap with the leaders without thinking he had a shot at it. On Cassidy walked along the lonely straight imagining the bristling speed as the pace heated up; there would be some last second evaluations, some positioning and re-positioning, and then finally the kicks, one by one or all at once, blasting away for the tightly drawn yarn across the finish line. Into the turn with only a 330 to go, everyone would be into it by then, everyone still in contention. Walton was known to kick from more than a 440 out, so surely his hand would be on the table. Coming out of the final turn just at the place Landy turned to look for the elusive Bannister, Cassidy walked into the final 110 straight and thought: Here, as they say, it will all be over but the shouting; you will fight the inclination to lean backwards, fight to keep the integrity of the stride, not let overeager limbs flail around trying to get more speed, just run your best stride like you have trained ten thousand miles to do and don't for god's sake let up here until the post is behind you. The die would be cast here, and no praying or cheering or cajoling or whimpering would change it. He had lost in this final straight before, but not as much as he had won here; neither held much in the way of fear or surprise once you were there. Such matters, as Denton had often said, were settled much earlier: weeks, months, years before, they were settled on the training fields, on the ten-mile courses, on the morning workout missed here or made up there. Other than maintaining and leaning at the tape, Denton had told him, there is not much you can do about it. Heart has nothing to do with it. In the final straight,
everyone
has heart.

Cassidy walked on past the finish line, across which someone would hold the taut yarn and blink as the runners flashed by. It was still more than 24 hours away, but standing there in the calm anonymous night five yards past the familiar white post, Quenton Cassidy knew at that instant the depth of his frenzied yearning to feel the soft white strand weaken and separate against his heaving chest.

The demons were in control; it no longer made him afraid.

36. The Race

The noise from the stadium carried out here but Cassidy didn't pay much attention. He liked doing most of the warmup ritual out on the cross-country course where he could think. The routine itself was automatic: four miles easy; then long, flowing striders, another mile easy, faster striders, then on with the spikes, some sprints on the track, then jog undl time. It was the roar in his head he had to fight.

It had to be contained, suppressed, released only in that slow crescendo of calculated frenzy that would crest when the pistol cracked and he unleashed it all. The orb now floated gently in his mind, glistening, peaceful, hard as spun steel. It would hold all grief, all despair, all the race-woes of a body going to the edge; it would allow him to do what he had to do until there was nothing left.

Yes, he had decided long ago it was better to get ready out here, where things were quieter, more normal, more like his everyday routine. Trying to warm up in the stadium, being close to the crowd, would make him jittery, causing the roar in his head to build in spurts, getting him there too early. It might upset the orb and when the despair descended he would have no place to put it. Or he might be in such a lunatic state as to turn the first 220 in 25 seconds out of sheer screaming hysteria. No, it was better out here, where it was quiet, where he could get ready in the same way he had done all the rest; it gave some comfort, this last bit of quietude.

He jogged slowly by the married student housing area, watching little children play under the trees. It was the eerie, almost magic, post-dinner hour when time stands still for a child, when all existence floats in a cool gray bath of dying day and Order is mercifully drawn from a chaotic infinity by a mother's come-home call.

"Erica! Jeremy!'* Two litde figures scuttled away in the shadows. He was getting farther and farther from the stadium, but he had plenty of time. Some other runners passed in pairs and threes, but no one spoke. One nodded at Cassidy but looked puzzled. What would they be thinking about this bearded Finn with the ragged blond hair?

Would they think they recognized him from some
Track and Field News
photo?

Cassidy jogged on. It was early May warm and subtropical flowers ruled the air dizzily: the kind of evening so heavy with promise as to make him wonder if his life could ever be quite the same again as it was now, while he was so vital, so quick, so nearly immortal; while his speed and strength was such that he could be called by only a handful of men on earth. Surely there could not be that many of us walking around like this, he thought.

He felt a strange brand of nostalgia now that it was so close; a nostalgia for this moment, for this next hour. The present was so poignant he had begun to reminisce already. He thought of Michelangelo's David pondering the stone: David, too, wondering if life would ever be the same.

Quenton Cassidy could be forgiven the solemnity of his mood. He was a young man about to go to the edge, a young man with every bit of the wherewithal to
get
to the edge. The inevitability of his journey there was never very far from his mind; he knew that before too very long he would be in mortal distress.

The time you won your town the race, we chaired you through the marketplace,
he thought. Then a burst for twenty yards just to enjoy the sensation of sudden unleashed speed. He felt flushed and tired. That was common. You never really know how you feel, he thought, until the second lap. Sometimes not even then. Sometimes you don't even know until the last lap,
the stiller town.

When he reached Lake Alice, he slowed to a walk and then stopped altogether. He stretched out on the grass and did hurdles and butterflies. Stretching was always a pleasant indulgence.

Then he undid the vertical zippers along the legs of his sweat pants and felt up and down both achilles tendons. All the knots and lumps were gone. Soft trails, he thought; godamn Denton and those beautiful soft trails. He had made it through the winter okay, only two colds and no real injuries. He was a man without an alibi.

Two runners in Villanova sweats went by, but he didn't recognize either of them. From far off the crowd yelled as someone cleared a height or broke the tape in a sprint preliminary, and his own body responded by dumping a shot of adrenaline into his system. He caught it quickly. Not yet, he thought, not even close yet.

It was a time for daydreams; the roar in his head was far off now and building, but it would grow on its own. The problem now was control.

There had been a local race a long time ago, a five-miler late in the summer. As the runner tooled along the bicycle path on the Palm Beach side of the lake he was sweating profusely; it flew off in arcs on every stride. True, he was not in very good shape yet, but it was far too early to worry about it. It was still summer and deathly hot.

The child stopped him right in his tracks. It was about a mile after he had made the turn at the Sailfish Club. The kid could have been no more than six or seven, and as he walked towards the runner, it was apparent there was something wrong with him; he moved without flow, all angles and juts. The runner thought: he's so pale. But the child was just beaming. Wispy hair fell back into place as the hot wind blew through it, clear blue eyes stared at Cassidy without fear or self-consciousness. Cassidy stood gasping, dripping puddles of sweat onto the asphalt. He tried his best to beam back. Through his gasping he couldn't help chuckling at how silly this was.

"Hello," Cassidy said.

"Hello," the child said happily, "what are you doing?"

"I'm running a race. What's your name?"

"Allan." The child laughed, put a small hand to his mouth. It was so thin as to seem transparent. The runner looked over his little legs for braces but saw none. The left shoe, however, seemed bulkier on the bottom than the other.

"A race?" The child laughed again, obviously wary of being teased. "But where are your opponents?" He said it oh-po-nuts.

"Oh," the runner gestured back towards the Sailfish Club, "they'll be right along." The child cocked his head in a very curious, nearly feminine manner, but he was still beaming.

"You," he said, "run like a big cat." The runner swallowed.

"You," Cassidy said, "are the finest fellow I have run across all morning, Allan. And I guess I'd better be getting along before my oh-po-nuts come along."

"Goodbye big cat."

"Goodbye Allan."

As he slipped off and gathered speed, he looked behind every few yards to see the child still watching; finally he disappeared behind a curve of high hibiscus a quarter of a mile down towards the bridge. Wonder what he will think when the rest of them come clomping along, he thought. And although he really wasn't in very good shape yet he turned a 4:45 for the last mile, changed from his racing flats and jogged across the bridge towards home before the rest of them got in. If there was a medal or something they would just have to mail it to him.

For a long time after that he wondered what it was about that child.

A shriek from the stadium brought him back. He braked his wildly skittering heart.

Cassidy swooped into a strider, held it until the speed built to racing pace, held it, held it, then eased off, slowed to a stride, then ajog, and finally to a walk a hundred yards away. He was on the flat grass in the field across the street from the stadium; other athletes flashed by in blurs of color. He allowed himself some excitement on one of the striders and instantly felt the goose bumps on the back of his neck. He hadn't ever had it quite this bad before.

The noise from the stadium across the street added to the growing roar in his head but it didn't matter now; it was all right now. He allowed it to come, let it fuel his stride as he started up, slipped into it, and then built up speed until his legs seemed to come detached from him and he flew along without conscious effort. Other athletes were at it too, nervous, casting furtive glances at each other (never looking anyone in the eye). A lot of people talk themselves right out of races now, Cassidy thought. He looked at his watch: 7:38. The mile was scheduled for 8:20 but they were running behind. Still, a few minutes later he heard the call over the loudspeaker: FIRST CALL FOR THE MILE RUN. His heart twisted around in his chest like a wild animal; it was an absolutely wrenching shot of adrenaline.
They were going to run it after all! He was going to have to go through with it!

Then he got control again and steadied himself. Of course he was going to run this race. Take it easy. It was time to get into the infield and get used to being inside there, do the last touch-ups, put on the spikes: ritual, ritual, ritual. Then the last sprints, the final psyching. Jesus, he thought suddenly, why am I doing this? I ought to be in the three-mile. I've been doing all that bulk work and everything. I can't possibly be ready for a mile ...

Then he steadied himself again; he thought of the last 220 the evening before and told himself: easy. He took a deep breath and walked over to pick up his bag. He had not spoken one word to anyone during the entire hour he had been out here. Runners flashed by. Everyone looked fast and fit as hell.

Then he caught himself again. Any of these mothers runs 3:58 in a godamn time trial in the dead of night and he'll damned well deserve to eat my lunch. Again he told himself: easy.

Inside the stadium a 178-pound lad who could bench press 300 pounds planted a 16-foot fiberglass pole in a tin box, inverted himself, and was tossed into the air a little more than 17 feet, 8 inches. When the crowd reacted to this feat with a roar, something flipped in Quenton Cassidy: His heart jumped so hard he thought his head was going to pop right off. The tumult in his head was like rush hour traffic in the bottom of a wishing well. He walked to the competitors' entrance and for a split second had a rush of ordinary civilian panic as well. He had forgotten completely about this disguise business.

But the little round face looked up from the clipboard and the cold stump of cigar went round and round.

"Well, let's see here, 242, why I guess that would be you, Seppol Go right on in there boy and you have yourseff a good race, yuh hear? Say, that ain't true what they say about you Finn boys drinkin' reindeer milk, is it? Didn't think so."

Cassidy heard Brady Grapehouse cackling behind him as he went into the stadium.

How the hell did Denton arrange that, he wondered. But then he was on the inside and the special atmosphere, the blue-white lights, the wintergreen-lased multi-colored carnival that is a major track meet sent his senses reeling, just as it always did. God, he thought, here I an. again; here it all is and here am I with it all on the line one more time. He looked back uptrack to make sure it was clear and then jogged across the lanes to put his bag down. His heart skittered again, feeling for the first time in weeks the springy Tartan beneath his feet. Officials were running here and there, hurdle setters scurrying around, timers checking watches. No one noticed the tall runner in robin's egg blue as he began the methodical jogging on the inside grass lane. The infield was a mass of motion. Javelin throwers were slogging back and forth in their strange sideways gate, hurling imaginary spears at their long-extinct enemies, broad jumpers bounded around, high jumpers took their run-ups, and the runners of all sizes circled the track in various stages of their warmups. It made a three-ring circus look like a quilting bee.