Crunching numbers

He was an unyielding menace. A certainty that was a constant reminder of her short-comings. He taunted her at every race and was a relentless force that laughed at the best of her efforts. Now the day arrived that they would be facing off again.

Outside the weather was bordering on perfection and the morning seemed to be promising nothing but greatness. She was stretching her legs under clouds that were a meditative armada in the sky. Every one of them seemed to be on Valium as they collectively drifted in a lazy river up there, chasing and flirting with one another as they passed them by, while streaming past a sun that had the buoyant poise of a benevolent dictator.

The ground felt good on her back as she held her kneecap compressed against her chest, her bib already clipped to it, as she welcomed the grass while on the ground. Her number was 1412 and she quietly observed to herself that it had nothing to do with 47. That was how many seconds he beat her by when she had performed at her best, her fourth marathon, the one that was mostly all downhill. He had beaten her by less than a freak in minute and she had never gotten over it, searching her mind the following weeks on where she had gone wrong.

Also, that number was also how old she was. She extended her hips out and held the stretch for a protracted moment, overserving to herself because of that reason she felt the Fates were involved with this one, her sixth marathon, and taking a personal interest.

         The announcer’s voice had a southern drawl and was pepped up crackling out of the microphone, rallying up the runners as well as the numerous spectators that were crowding the streets. A high school band had been playing cover songs where they all gathered in a downtown park where several booths were propped up and handing out free trinkets, discounted name brand shoes, gym memberships. When the two-minute warning was announced before the race began many of the runners enlisted were still lined up at the porter potties and looking antsy about it, and she didn’t sympathize at all with their negligence. She had stationed herself twenty feet behind the starting line twenty minutes prior, impatient with caffeinated adrenaline coursing through her, and she felt herself pacing inside like a caged tiger. She was pumped and ready, and kept visualizing herself finally beating this obstinate bastard. She didn’t look around for him. There were 440 runners here and she knew exactly where she would find him.

         The announcer was now fired up and when his countdown began it was as if the rotation of the world had been put on pause. Hearts were already pumping and in first gear. There was a dynamic intensity she felt fluttering through her, the atmosphere was charged and it was a phenomenon collectively shared among the runners all around her. You could feel it. The final seconds petered out and the go-ahead shot popped in the air, whatever the current source of that was, and a guy with a robust voice behind her yelled, as someone is always prone to do, “Alright we’re doing this, no turning back… good luck everybody!” as the sea of people turned into a wave that began to surge forward.

         Right away she was caught up in its swarm and was fiercely driven to propel it faster along. She was on a mission. She filtered through people and slithered around them whenever the opportunity allowed, this first mile being a grueling sludge at times, a mire that she knew that she would have to atone for as soon as she got the chance. Fortunately, that came rather quick and she found herself veering off towards the sidelines so that she could weave past as if she was Ms. Pacman gobbling up pellets. Other challengers were doing the same behind her and she didn’t everything in her power not allowing any of them to catch her.

The first part of the course followed the bay and had some amazing views of the water and the distant mountains beyond. The clouds continued to do strange things and the occasionally furry sea creature would occasionally pop its curious head out of the water, as if the seal or sea otter was in solidarity with her vanquishing him, and the cranes poised majestically on their rocky perches also seemed to be in league with her plight.

She raced by them along with a host of other runners. A permit allowed for them to have the entire use of the elevated road and she hustled along it, the sea breeze filtering through her hair. She felt positive that she was doing great for these first few miles, her hasty cadence cranking along with a satisfying pace, yet she also aware and daunted by the fact that this triumphant mentality held sway over her in every past race she was a part of, when she felt that she was rocking it out and doing awesome, yet unfortunately she was always loathe to discover that he was always a minute or two ahead of her.

Every damn time that bastard.

The one thing she resented the most about him was that he was so damn consistent. The hills could be daunting, the crowd thick at bottlenecking times, and exhaustion sapped every runner, yet he was unphased by it all, completely unaffected and exempt from its taxation. Even in the unyielding heat or when that 20 mile hour wind came out of nowhere bullying its way on the trail… neither had any effect on him either, and the rigid manner in which he always continued to motor on, carefree and unmolested by any of life’s discomforts, seriously rankled her.

Every race was the same with him.

Mile 6 came and she felt she had zero intention in slowing down. She felt invincible and knew exactly why. That extra training lately was really paying off and it felt great and refreshing to witness in real life how it was all unfolding as well as what she was capable of. She had been geared towards this goal of vanquishing—him so long now it was dominating her life. She ran all the time… after work, on her weekends, even to the grocery store if she needed something. She ran everywhere until this grinding, obsessive routine became her comfort zone that she depended on. When it rained or was freezing was when she accomplished her best miles.

She reminded herself that the few injuries she initially endured he was by no means sympathetic regarding her recovery and even taunted her loss of gains. In fact, he made it clear it was because of him that she would have to endure the stiffness and pain for so long, and she could picture his arrogant face about it, and absorbed that travesty so that she could convert to a spirited fuel that propelled her to go on faster.

         And she did.

Mile 10 was approaching and this was where she usually discovered her stride and was when she truly felt alive. She kept chugging along and without slowing it down a notch she managed to pluck an energy gel stowed away in her fanny pack to maintain the optimal fuel, one of those electrolyte revitalizing energy serums that worked its amazing magic. She also relished the raspberry flavor she had randomly selected out of the three of them that she had stowed away. Volunteers were handing out generic versions of the same thing at aid stations every few miles with were replete with eager hands extended with cups of Gatorade or water.

The support along the way really went the extra mile… yeah, this pun having no other choice but to just write itself into this. Also, the neighborhood kids were doing the same as well, completely thrilled by their efforts, some of them making attempts to sneak in high fives from the marathoners that passed them by. She seldom took any of the water shots and didn’t reach out for any other reason. She had seen all this pomp before, appreciated their animated presence, but chose to remained focused and just keep pushing through this thing.

Mile 14. They were winding through a posh neighborhood alongside a creek where bridges spanned the sidewalks and lawns were well manicured. Leaf blowers were busy wreaking havoc on the peace, yet she missed their disturbance due to the retro hits of the 80’s, the nostalgic music pumping the familiar beats into her ears and propelling her along. The landscapers paused in their work, seemingly surprised by the hundreds of runners coming down what would be normally referred to as a quiet, meandering route.

She was over half way now and tried avoiding making eye contact with the mile markers. For some reason they were never a delight to see. It was a sporadic reminder of where she was and where she shouldn’t be. There were also pacers among this crowd. Those were those particular participants injected into this race that were associated with the organization that hosted the event who carried their wizardry poles propped in the air that announced at any given point how well you were running and at what mile. She looked upon them with contempt, as if they were haunting demons he sent out to sneer at her. They were his mischievous little minions.  

She really detested their presence and it looked like she was gaining on of them now, this bouncy, blond girl pacing along as she robotically supposed to do, aloof to the devil she was in league with. No matter what numbers they showed or at what mile she was at, they always resembled the evil in his eye that stared her down at the final moments, and she was too tired to consider any of this as she passed one of his acolytes by.

They were heading back into the main part of the city and a house had a banner stretched across its fence asserting, “Your elementary teacher is proud of you!” Another streamer read off around the corner, “Run like you stole something.” People were lining the streets everywhere cheering them on. “I trained for months to hold this sign” was another one, and when she gleaned that quirky remark it seemed to be the first time that day she smiled.

She didn’t care about the medal, the free T-shirt, the assortment of snacks and catered food from a local restaurants, as well as the festivities afterwards. It could be quite the party and she had hung around and partook in the festivities before. However, today her focus was on nothing but outpacing and finally beating this jerk.

It was mile 19 and she had no clue how far ahead this prick was. What she did know, and fearfully so, was that she had slowed down to a fast walk somewhere a few miles back when she felt that she shouldn’t have, sweat staining her shirt and dripping from her eyebrows, and the daze swimming through her at that moment she wasn’t exactly comfortable with how prolonged it was. That walk felt good, too good, and she maybe have basked in it for too long. And then she had stopped to catch her breath again at one point, not sure where that was or whether she stalled to walk some but the thought of that impacting her began to fatigue her, and she waved that nonsense off as another one of his distractions.

Where was he? She wondered if she really wanted to know. The pacers could have given her major hints on his whereabouts but since she resented their ungodly presence so much placed among her compatriot brethren, she refused to make an effort to even look at them and the flagrant reality they represented.

Mile post 22. Only four miles left and it felt as if she had been running for weeks.

She picked up her pace. She thought this was something that she had been doing all along, but she had always felt this way in the past races, yet he still got the best of her. Her knees kicked up, her steps quickened, and she imagined herself feeling ten pounds lighter. This was the mindset she had adopted and she learned tricks to maximize her training. Her legs were screaming at her to tone it down, her lungs demanding some respite, but she had learned to conquer her mind, to embrace this pain and absorb the anguish that assailed her. She welcomed this fight and knew everyone runner out doing this was enduring this exhaustion… everyone but him.  

Mile 25.

There was one final aid station, one with a doctor, and a much more denser crowd milling about cheering the racers on. Also, they were providing beer. Pints were on display that could readily be chugged. They were looking like trophy’s, delicious and quixotic, and this was the only aid station that she stopped had for. She grabbed whatever brew it was and slammed it down, her muscles ripped and strained, sweat completely covering her, and she was far too immersed into this final groove to pay much attention to all the rambunctious hollering in support of that choice she just made. As mentioned before, this race was sponsored by people who really knew how to come through.

It was all downhill from here, literally, and she took advantage however best she with this slope. She also knew that he would be maintaining his constant, steady pace here, arrogant as he was about it, and not using gravity to his advantage like she was doing because that was something he wasn’t capable of doing. Other petered out runners were on their final limbs and going past her and she got back up to speed, knowing she would be giving all she got and was fated to beat that asshole who laughed at her every time she attempted this.

And she was flying down the hill, a nifty beer buzz cruising within her, she felt an ecstatic chill pervade through her perspiration. She was winning. Like far more than she would have guessed. And that’s when she saw the mother fucker. And the look of terror on his face was priceless.

The bounty of life that the world provides we refer to as Mother Nature, but it is Father Time that withers it and challenges its duration here. And there he was at the finish line, always ready to bomb the picture they took of her when she crossed it. The giant clock! Even though it was a challenging feat that she had been accomplishing, he was always there to taunt her, the dominating overlord who made no deals, and always in his spot with that asshole grin on his face. In the background and always in her finishing picture he was there behind her reading off something dreadful such as 4:03.22, 4:02.41, and a hint of snarky laughter was issued when he was proudly grinning a 4:00.47 that breezy fourth one.

To qualify for a Boston Marathon, one must complete an official race in under four hours and it’s a goal every serious runner who puts their heart this passion. In fact, one percent of all runners belong to this club and that was a badge of honor she had dedicated her middle age life in making happen. And she had once missed it by 47 seconds and he just shook his snarky head having no pity at her. Nothing personal by the way.

And she kept flying down the hill. The marks in his face became more transparent when she got closer to the finish line and the numbers she saw represented staring back her made her ecstatic. They were far more in her favor than she had expected, so much that he, too, was observant to this unexpected success and scrambled in a panic to do whatever he could to speed up his restricted movements, but the laws of nature he so proudly defended and was smug about wouldn’t allow it.

She was barreling through and feeling invisible.

The announcer was full of energy and called out, “And now we have Mellie Sparks from Olympia, Washington coming in strong. Awesome job!” She then blew across the finish line at top speed, the triumphant shout roaring from her mouth was something that was both feral and relieving, and she felt as if she just smashed through and shattered a wall of concrete, splintering the shards in well won fractured pieces. 3:56.47 was the last look on his vanquished face and where she annihilated him. This whole race had been freaking awesome.

Someone handed her a medal and a bottle of water, and began to assist in leading her away. She was in a swirl of sweaty delirium that was kind of mixing well with unbridled excitement while crowds on both sides were congratulating her. Others runners were coming also coming in fast behind her and they were living the dream.

She had slayed it.