The Quasi-Marathon

As Mary Trivett walked in the door carrying two heavy grocery bags, she found her husband slumped on the couch, watching TV. A greasy bowl of chips and a beer can were on the table in front of him—nothing out of the ordinary there.

Peter Trivett was 39 years old, with pale skin and dull brown eyes. He was bald. He was short and had a growing beer gut, which wasn’t only the work of beer. He loved eating junk food and took his passion very seriously.

“I’m gonna need you to go pick up the car on Saturday,” Mary said.

“Why?” Peter asked in a childish voice, a handful of chips halfway to his mouth.

“They are organizing this race at my school to raise money for the Children’s Defense Organization. It’s next month. And I volunteered to help them put everything together.”

“A race?”

“Yes, a race,” she said, annoyed. “You know that thing where you have to run as fast as you can against other people. A race. It’s ten bucks to enter it, they give you a bib, you run, and you get a nice trophy if you win. It’s only 5 miles, actually. We call it a quasi-marathon,” she laughed awkwardly as if she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the name. “It’s all about the spirit of generosity, solidarity, and about joining forces to help others.”

“That sounds fun,” Peter said, paying more attention to the football game than to his wife.

“Yeah, right,” Mary snickered, and the arrogance in her voice startled Peter and made him look away from the TV.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“When have you ever found running fun, or any activity that requires getting your fat ass off that couch, for that matter,” she replied and left the room to put the groceries away.

“Don’t you talk to me like that!” Peter shouted, furious. “That’s totally unfair.”

“Is it?” Mary asked from the kitchen. “When have you ever stuck to a physical activity?”

“Well, there's that one time, I played tennis for a little while. Remember?”

“You went twice.”

“It’s because it conflicted too much with my work schedule. That’s not the point. Why do you have to be so mean and... and bitter all the time?”

She came back to the living room, and in a soft—almost motherly—voice, she said, “Peter, stop lying to yourself, will you?”

These words and her tone enraged him more than any insults she could have said.

He stood up and said, “You know what? I’ll do your stupid competition to prove to you that I can ‘stick to a physical activity,’ as you put it.” He stormed off the room, his beer gut swinging in front of him.

Three days later, Peter found himself on a field. His lungs were on fire, and the coach was yelling at him to keep going, that he could do it.

Why are you doing this? You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, especially not to Mary, he thought in the voice of what he liked to think as the badass in himself. And this woman needs to stop telling you what to do. You’re a grown-up man, Pete. You can make your own decisions. Do whatever the hell you want. And start by quitting this stupid training program.

An out-of-breath Peter was trudging along the field, sweat dripping down his back and forehead.

If you quit now, she’ll think she was right, and that’ll only make things worse. That was the voice of reason. Peter didn’t like this voice much. It’s only five miles after all. You can do it. It’s not like you have to run a marathon. You just have to run a little bit every day to stay fit.

As if you had ever been fit, the sarcastic voice in himself said. He liked that one even less. He didn’t pay much attention to it.

After the day’s training was done, he decided he wouldn’t go again. Instead, he would run every day—or almost every day—by himself, and that should be enough. He never did.

***

At dinner, the day before the race, he was surprised to realize that he felt quite nervous and insecure.

“How do you feel? Are you ready for the big day,” Mary asked, but he could sense in her tone that she already had an answer to this question. And it wasn’t the one he was about to give her.

“Yes, I’m ready. I’m going to run my first marathon.”

“It’s barely 5 miles, Peter, don’t get carried away,” Barbara replied in a voice so sharp it would have cut metal.

After a moment, she said, “You won’t do it. You’re too fat and…” She stood up and started toward the kitchen. She paused in the doorway, turned around, and added, “and you smoke too much.” She left.

“You’ll see. I promise you I can do it,” he said.

She turned around again, looked at him in the eyes, and said in a cutting voice, “Peter, stop making promises you can’t, and have no intentions to keep.

***

Race day had finally come, and Peter couldn’t help but cast nervous glances at his competitors. How come they all looked so fit and healthy and beautiful? One of them in particular—Brian, his name must be Brian, Peter thought—was stretching and running in small circles. Peter stared at him for a moment.

He eventually looked away. He couldn’t let himself get discouraged. Peter knew he wasn’t incredibly fit, and he didn’t like exercise—and exercise didn’t like him back, for that matter,—but he could run five miles. Hopefully, that would get Mary off his back for a while. Her reproaches and criticisms were getting on his nerves. Maybe after the race, he would be able to do whatever the hell pleased him.

“All participants, be on your mark,” the announcer shouted.

“Well, here we go,” a man wearing torn sweatpants said. He was standing right next to Peter, but Peter hadn’t noticed him. He felt a perverse pleasure when he realized the man wasn’t in much better shape than him. 

‘Good luck,’ the man told Peter.

‘Good luck to you too, buddy’ Peter replied, sounding hesitant and vulnerable.

The announcer blew his whistle, and the race started. As soon as Peter began running, he felt the weight of his belly, the sweat forming under his armpits and along his back, and his lungs catching fire. It was going to be a very long race...

***

Two miles. Peter was pale, sweaty, and out of breath. He had come to the conclusion that if he kept running for one more second, he would die. But Peter was smiling.

Two minutes ago, he had been considering giving up and dealing with his wife’s reproaches. But, luckily for him, he had just noticed something interesting. As he was resting, bent over, hands on his knees, he had noticed a track running through the forest, away from sight. It gave directly to the last turn before the finish line.

You can’t do that, the reasonable voice in his head told him. You’re only proving Mary’s point by cheating.

How could he have known that five miles was so long anyway? It surely didn’t look this long when you were driving.

But the truth was, it didn’t really matter at this point. Peter didn’t have a choice anymore. He consulted his heart one last time, but there wasn’t much consulting to do. He had made his decision.

***

As Peter crossed the finished line, a bevy of incredulous faces turned toward him. He had finished second, right behind Brian—whose real name was Alex. Mary was nowhere in sight. Peter received a medal. He was all smiles.

“So you ran five miles in 42 minutes. That’s pretty impressive,” Mary told him later, as they were heading back home.

“I told you I could do it,” Peter said, visibly embarrassed.