Why We Run

The sweat was slick on the nape of Josh’s neck. His extremities burned and ached in defiance of his action, and he was afraid that if he stopped running, he might not be able to start again. The burning sensation his lithe muscles produced was only exacerbated by the midday sun. But despite the pain, he had to go on. He was still three runners behind and nearing the end of the race.

The front runner, Adroa, number 55 from Uganda, had been ahead the entire race, at a pace that pushed Josh to his maximum. As Josh willed his legs forward, he drifted in and out of the present moment, his brain presenting him with random thoughts and images, some relevant, some not. He spared a moment to look behind him. His group was more than a few yards ahead of anyone else, and the realization both relaxed him and spurred him on.

Looking forward once more, he saw runner 68, Santari, only a few steps ahead, and Josh focused intently. If he did not start passing them now, he would run out of time. He stared at the shapes the numbers six and eight made as they bounced up and down on Santari’s back.

Suddenly, Josh was back in his first race, staring at the numbers of the kid ahead of him. He had always been the fastest in his class and everyone knew it. All the other kids in his elementary school idolized him for it. He was like a god to them, and this race was another attempt to cement his popularity. The shot rang out. The well-paved track from the nearby high school felt amazing under the new sneakers he received for Christmas, and the flat surface helped him run faster than ever before. Before he knew it, the race was over, and a feeling of immense pride rose within him as he heard the roar of students chanting his name from the bleachers. He held up his hands in triumph, the other runners doubled over and panting. He did not even slow down. Showboating, he did another lap for the crowd. This moment would become who he is, cemented into his identity the way it was cemented into the collective memory of his classmates. Teachers praised him, classmates patted his back and sang his praises. He would go home and brag to his parents about how easy it was, how he was the best, and now everyone else knew it. He might exaggerate a little bit.

Staring at the number 68, he mentally shook himself, concentrating only on passing this one runner. He was only steps behind now, and he could tell Santari was tiring. For the briefest of moments, Josh’s mind flashed back to his first race one more time, clinging to that last vestige of elation echoing forward through time. It coursed through his veins, and he picked up his pace, throwing his elbows back further, digging into the ground. He was beside number 68 now. They glanced at each other for a moment, and Josh sped up even more, encouraged by this small victory. And now he was ahead, in third place. He knew he would keep that position as sure as he knew he would win. Because he was the best.

As his unconscious mind took over once again, he remembered the proud look on his dad’s face when Josh told him he won his first race. Then another memory came, blending into its predecessor. Josh was a little older, a little more mischievous. He had broken a window, although he would swear it was not his fault. He and his friends had been goofing off, he missed a catch, and his neighbor’s side window had a ball through it. His gut still wrenched with the thought. His friends had run off, but he was not fast enough to escape Old Mrs. McKraney’s wrath. In no time, she had him by the ear and was dragging him to his own front porch. His father apologized, sorted things, and after a while, Mrs. McKraney left. That is when the yelling started. The memories of his dad’s purpled face filling his field of view, the guilt, the spittle hitting his cheek, his ringing ears, they were all as vivid as the day it happened. They sat with him still, festering. A few tears and a few welts later, he was ashamedly sweeping up the glass in Mrs. McKraney’s kitchen.

Now, the sunlight was boiling the sweat from Josh’s skin as he kept pace, zeroing in on the runner ahead. The runner and Adroa were far enough ahead of Josh that it made him nervous. But he still had time. A drumbeat sounded. He was not sure if it was the blood in his ears or the pounding of his legs, but it was a unified, persistent beat. And it kept him moving.

Since he was ten, he had run every day. He ran before school, and after school. He pictured his girlfriend, his first love. She was there in the stands during his first real competition. It felt like a lifetime ago now. His dad had met with his coach during every practice over the summer to make sure his son would be allowed to compete at the start of freshman year. And compete he did. When he had won the race against all the older boys, there she was. They had not even met yet, but she was cheering for him, cheering for the winner. He imagined her now, cheering for him at the end of this race after having traveled across the globe to see him run. Josh picked up speed.

A few hundred drumbeats had passed, and he had halved the distance between himself and the runner ahead. He could see his number more clearly now and focused. Josh focused on his goal and his supremacy over every other runner, his hatred for their comparative weakness. He focused on how unjust it would be if they won since he was their obvious superior. If they won, it would be no one’s fault but his own, he would not have tried hard enough. He was gaining now, his mind moving as fast as his legs.

This was nothing. He had been training his entire life, running hundreds of miles a week. His dad made sure of it, made him strong, ready. He had suffered more and run faster than anyone in this race. He knew that. His mind conjured images of a run one night, up a steep hill he had trod a million times before. It was pouring rain, and he slipped, breaking his wrist and his nose. He was in as much exquisite agony as anyone had ever known. Josh sat on the curb and called his dad, begging him to drive him home. His dad was silent for a moment, Josh hardly registered a nearby bolt of lightning. Finally, his father simply asked if his legs were broken. Josh said no. His father told him to finish the rest of the route, then come home so they could take him to a hospital. As Josh cried out in protest, his father repeated the instructions and hung up. Struggling up from the wet pavement, Josh felt lightheaded as his vision tunneled and his wrist screamed in waves of throbbing objection. He trudged forward through the wet, every step a vibration that reignited his injuries. But he struggled on, knowing this was for the best. Headlights shone from behind and he moved out of the way so the car would not splash him. Not that it mattered. But the car did not pass. He looked over to see an old lady rolling down her window. She asked if he was alright, if he needed a ride. For a moment he felt joy. But he shook his head and waved her away. She continued driving beside him, petitioning him anew. He was shivering. He stopped to tell her off once more, but succumbing to a new wave of excruciating pain, he relented. As she started driving him home, he asked that she take the long way, so his dad would think he ran.

Josh was closing in on the second-place runner, Hwang, number 203. If he did not pass this runner, if he did not push through the pain, all his sacrifice and suffering would have been for nothing. He never drank, never did drugs, never had a social life. He ate only carefully proportioned foods. He suffered shin splints, heatstroke, dehydration, fatigue, constant cramps, rashes, and blisters. This is what it was all for. This moment. It was the last leg of the race and he had to make his move. Josh willed his body forward, numb to sensory experience. He passed Hwang but knew it would be a fight to maintain that position. Hwang would be one step behind.

This was the hardest part now. Getting past Adroa, the front runner. He was a greater distance off than the other two runners had been, and he only seemed to be speeding up. Josh clenched his fists.

He remembered his first big marathon. He remembered thinking the same thoughts, thinking about the pointlessness of all that training if he could not beat these people. Amidst a huge crowd of hundreds of participants, he saw his dad looking on from the crowd. The race was harder than Josh thought, but winning was easier than he expected. He won with a generous lead, and the celebration at the end of the track was more than he had hoped for. It was a glorious congratulatory warmth that engulfed him with praise and awards and photos and hugs. And when all was said and done, when the rapid flurry of excitement had died down, he was ready for the next race. The race he already knew he would win.

Present awareness returned, and he fixated on number 55. He was making progress, closing the distance. But he did not know if it would be enough. He could feel the finish line. He could smell it in the air. He focused on rage. He concentrated on how much he hated Adroa, the way his dad taught him to focus on his enemies. That man was trying to steal his gold medal, he was trying to take it from Josh and erroneously convince everyone he was the best. Josh could not let this happen. He would not sacrifice a lifetime of pride for a moment of weakness.

He remembered his first day at the Olympic training gym, being introduced to all the coaches and teammates, his family. They were impressed with his talent, and he quickly proved his worth to the team. It was there that he learned to appreciate being able to train with other people and practice in a safe space. He learned how to stay determined, and he learned invaluable tips and tricks to help him succeed.

Josh was representing his country now. He was a living symbol of his home. This was his one chance to show the world exactly how much he and his country were worth. He was right behind Adroa now, he had closed the distance. Josh squinted hard, pulling his body along. His eyes stung from sweat. Adroa glanced back and saw him, picking up the pace. But Josh would not let him go that easily. They were neck in neck, side by side, moving together step for step. And there was the finish line! Josh pulled ahead; he knew he could win. The crowd began to roar as they approached, Josh’s vision tunneling, focusing only on the last stretch. Adroa was barely a step behind.

Until he wasn’t.

Josh heard an awful sound, and he glanced back instinctively. In slow motion, he saw Adroa lurch forward, hop a few times, and collapse on his now broken leg. A rock rolled forward. Josh kept running. They were barely 40 seconds from the finish line. He stopped. He did not think about it, he just did. He looked at Adroa and saw on his face a pain few people would ever know or understand.

It was oddly quiet.

Adroa tried vainly to get up but slumped back down. The med team was already on their way to take him off the track. Josh took another step toward the finish line.

Then he jogged back and hoisted Adroa up. He did not ask, he just did. Josh leaned Adroa against him and let Adroa get a sense of balance, hopping a few times. Behind them, number 203 was going full speed, seeing his window of opportunity. It was possible that he would lap them.

Josh knew helping Adroa was wrong, that he should be focused on winning, that this weakness would cost him and his country their pride. That his dad would be watching, his girlfriend, his people. But he felt the desperate determination in Adroa’s hopping stride, he heard Adroa’s soft, despondent sob. And Josh did not feel disappointed, regretful, angry, or sad. He felt fine. Because he knew he was still the best.