The Runner

  It was Friday, the first day, when the schedule was an interlocked network of qualifying rounds. They had arrived last night after a nine-hour bus ride, and now they were standing around with the twenty-four other teams and their coaches, waiting for the day’s meets to begin. The coach was wound up tight and so were most of the other people around. Voices swirled all around Bullet. He kept his eyes on the mountains, taking in the look of them where they had been thrust up through the surface of the earth.”

  “When you’re not in a race I want you here, under my eye. You got that?” the coach told them. They nodded. “Nobody even goes to take a leak without that I know about it,” he said.

  The qualifying rounds would take all day. Saturday and part of Sunday would be used for the finals. The coach had already warned them that the schedule showed some girls’ exhibition matches Sunday morning, and he expected them to show up for those, however they felt. Whether they wanted to sleep in or not, he expected them to be there showing good sportsmanship. Bullet figured, he’d see what he felt like. “You too, Tillerman,” the coach had said, fixing him with his eye. Bullet debated saying he’d see, then decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. “Okay,” he agreed, giving his word.

  He had an hour to wait until his qualifying cross-country run. Javelin and high jump were in the afternoon. He let his eyes rove over the milling crowds. Competitors wore shorts and sweatshirts. Everyone else carried clipboards and had whistles hung around their necks. The conversations were punctuated with the sharp sound of somebody blowing on a whistle and the sound of the starter’s gun. Bullet stuck around, not talking to anybody, just looking around. Tamer, he noticed, looked relaxed, as he sat talking with a bunch of blacks; most people looked, and acted, nerved up. Blacks don’t get so nervous, he thought.

  Bullet wasn’t nerved up. They were running the qualifying cross-country in three different heats, so that the field wouldn’t be too crowded. When the time came for his heat, he stood waiting at the start, not looking at anybody, then posed for the gun—and ran.

  It was a three-mile course, up and down hills, through forest undergrowth, across deep gullies where little streams trickled, a couple of long, flat stretches along dirt roads, and then, at the end, the quarter-mile flat sprint. Bullet ran it hard. It was a good course, worth putting good work into. It was a strenuous course, because going up and down hills required you to adjust your pace and kept you from steadying down into rhythm except during the straight runs. He came in first, feeling good, feeling worked out, feeling glad he’d had the chance to put his feet down along that course.

  The only place he was liable to get into trouble, he thought, on Saturday’s five-mile final race, was going to be getting over obstacles. The hurdling technique was designed for level ground. An obstacle on this course would just as likely lead into a downslope or an upslope, and the ground could send you off-balance as you landed. Bullet figured if he fell and took the impact with his arms or chest that would be all right. The danger was, of course, taking the strain on a leg, especially an ankle. As long as his legs were working, he could run. It’ll be a question of how you fall, then, if you fall, he told himself.

  The results came in at the end of dinner. Crisfield had qualified in everything but high jump and the hundred meter. “Somebody pinch me,” the coach said, reading off the results as they sat at a long cafeteria table. The college campus where the championships were held had been emptied by its own students for a long weekend. The teams were sleeping in dormitories and eating in the student cafeteria. “How’d we do last year? We stayed in the broad jump and nothing else. Except cross-country. Correct me if I’m wrong.” Bullet didn’t remember last year. “Tillerman, did you see the time on that guy from Baltimore?”

  Bullet hadn’t.

  “Well, he’s gonna give you some competition. He’s a runner.”

  Bullet shrugged and went back to eating. The coach moved on, to encourage the middle-distance runners. Bullet, chewing and swallowing, his mind drifting, let his eyes drift to the westward-facing windows where the last echoes of the setting sun threw the long shadows of mountains down over the valley. He felt a twinge, or something, gearing him up invisibly. What is it, he asked himself, you afraid of a little real competition? He wasn’t sure of the answer.

  His mind nibbled at the question through dinner, and especially the next morning during the hours of waiting. He got a sixth in the javelin, better than he would have expected. But he wondered if he was the kind of runner who took winning easy because there had never been any question of whether he would win or not. That kind of jerk.

  He looked around at the competitors, as event succeeded event, only one going on at a time now, because these were the finals. The faces were sometimes grimly concentrating, sometimes visibly nervous. But always the bodies were moving, run by an energy that had to come out.

  Bullet stood quiet, because he felt that way. He was warmed up, and after lunch he’d jog a little to be fresh and ready. Nobody was allowed to jog over the cross-country course, not for the state finals. That didn’t bother him. He looked around, trying to figure out who this Baltimore guy might be, if he would recognize him.

  You never had any real competition, he remarked to himself. He felt—not jangled, but jingly; extra alert, physically and mentally. He was always ready for a race, but this was more than usual.

  You scared? he asked himself.

  I don’t think so, I don’t think that’s it.

  Smells like scared to me.

  Well it could be; doesn’t feel like scared.

  How would you know?

  I’d know. Scared was what he felt when he first thought maybe he should have brought OD in, to get her to a vet; scared was when he saw how he was making things for his mother.

  Scared would be if he found out he was just running to win races easily.

  Just imagining that possibility turned the jingles to jangles, and he had an impulse to do a little running in place. You can’t know until you’ve run the race, jerk. No sense getting het up ahead of time.

  Bullet grinned, relaxed and watched the pole vaulting until his eye—following the arch of a body over the bar—was caught by the clouds blowing in little puffball bunches over the western mountains. They floated high and easy overhead. Behind them, straggling along, came more clouds. Each came into view as it overtopped the mountain, sailing over and onto the clear expanse of sky.

  Bullet ate a sandwich a couple of hours before the race, but didn’t drink anything. Twenty minutes before the race was to start, he went to join the other competitors. He sat down to do some exercises, to loosen up a little, as the others were doing. The coach came over, said a word to Tamer, who was doing sit-ups, then stood over Bullet. “Run like hell, Tillerman,” he said, giving Bullet the thumbs-up signal.

  Bullet didn’t say anything. I’m not gonna run like hell, I’m gonna run. Like always.

  Tamer moved over until they were a few yards apart. “I might do okay,” he said, doing some slow toe touches. “I watched your heat yesterday—you’re a pleasure, Bullet. Regardless of race. Have you seen that guy from Baltimore?”

  “Naw.” Bullet rested back on his elbows, relaxing down his whole body. The clouds slid by overhead, riding a high wind. He glanced over the rest of the competitors, wondering if he could recognize this runner everybody was talking about. He wondered if physical appearance marked the guy out, if he looked like he was better than the rest. Or if something about the way he was warming up, some confidence, would show. As Bullet’s eye roamed over the twenty-odd young men, he saw the pull and stretch of their muscles, the limber movements of arms and legs, the heads bent, concentrating. A couple of times as he looked the field over, he caught someone’s eyes on him—they knew who he was. A pair of blue eyes avoided his glance, not wanting to be caught studying him. Bullet came alert and noted the long legs and broad chest of the young man, a good runner’s build. Bullet waited: the blue eyes started back to him, but shied away as soo
n as they saw he was still looking. That’s him. The guy didn’t want Bullet to know he was measuring him. Bullet felt like smiling: maybe he’d go over and introduce himself, make a little conversation, and watch the guy twitch.

  As they lined up for the start, Bullet found that he knew where the blue-eyed guy was standing, he found himself aware of the guy’s attitude and gestures. Are you worried he’ll beat you? he asked himself. I don’t know, I don’t think so, I hope not, he answered.

  They started from a line. After that, they would run between the crowds for a quarter mile before the pathway narrowed and took off over a hillside. Four and a half miles later, at the finish, there was another broad path, where spectators could see what was happening. There would be check points along the course, where judges were seated unobtrusively, marking times.

  Bullet felt his blood dancing along all of the veins and arteries in his body. He breathed in the air, clear and cold from the mountains it had just blown over. He felt good. He felt like running. He glanced over at the blue-eyed guy: I hope you’re as good as they say.

  At the start, Bullet pulled out and ahead. For the first seconds, the first dozen or so sprinting strides, he was aware of the blue-eyed runner. Then he forgot him. And ran.

  Over the rise of the first hill, the path twisted down a rocky slope to low brush, then crossed a field abandoned to grass. Bullet sailed over the brush and hit the ground running. He pushed himself, arms relaxed but up and pumping hard, through long grass that swept at his thighs. All of his body was working together for the run, in perfect coordination. His legs thrust down against the ground, his elbows were in tight as his arms pumped easily, his lungs filled with the sweet air and then emptied, and his eyes kept sharp on the marked path ahead, sweeping close, sweeping far, for potholes or burrows, for fences or alterations in terrain or switches of direction. He wasn’t thinking, he didn’t need to think, because his whole brain was working for him, to judge, to decide, to keep ready.

  He went over the scrub growth at the end of the field and into the trees, not cutting his speed at all, even though the branches slapped and scraped at him. At a gulley he stumbled, coming on it too fast, kept his footing about halfway down then went into a roll. He came out of the roll and up into a run up the opposite side. He felt the way his legs pushed him up the steep slope, pushing long, coming down short to push up long again. He used his hands to grab at any branches that came his way and add a little pull to the push.

  The course took him up over broad boulders that seemed to be working their way out from under the ground’s covering. He leaped down off the far sides of these, choosing to land where more rock showed rather than on leaves. You never knew what was under leaves. The course took him a couple of hundred yards down in a gulley, running its length where there wasn’t room on either side of the stream for you to put two feet together, so you were either always straddling the stream as you ran, or running in its icy water with the slippery rocks under your feet. Bullet took the stream, getting fast off every foot so that his forward movement would offset any loss of balance when his feet slipped on the wet rocks. But cold; it was cold.

  He clambered up the side of the gulley and registered a judge, a sharp turn a few yards beyond. A good course, he said, not in words but in the quick shifting of his feet at full run to change direction; the toughest course he’d run ever.

  Shifting his pace, following the winding path, hurdling over obstacles with his legs ready to take whatever terrain waited on the other side, he ran the course in a celebration. A five-mile celebration. Brain and muscles, bones and will, all worked at the job. Training and talent were both being used, used hard. As he went up the last hill and came down to the level finish, he paced up.

  Better than ever before—not just faster, better—he ran the quarter mile. He had seen the crowd gathered there, but they didn’t signify except to mark the boundaries of the course. He had no idea whether he was running alone or with a pack of competitors—his senses and brain registered only his own run. The wind roared in his ears, or his blood roared in his ears; something roared in his ears.

  Crossing the line and going beyond the crowd before he stopped, Bullet stood facing the mountains. His legs shook and every muscle in his body ached along its long bones. Tired, he was tired—but he wouldn’t have minded running that course again.

  He stood with the crowd at his back, and the roaring identified itself as cheering and applause. He looked to the mountains, shoved up into the sky. Over their tops, a procession of high-headed clouds raced, gilded by the sunlight.

  Oh, yes. Bullet watched the sky. Then he turned around to face the applause.

  At the edge of the crowd, moving along to the cement pathway back to the campus, he saw a red blouse. She wore her suit skirt and heels; she wore her hair down her back in a heavy braid.

  What’s she doing here?

  Leaving.

  I know, but what—?

  He had no impulse to go after her. She was probably in a hurry to catch a bus in Frederick, to return to Crisfield where she would have left Johnny’s boat tied up. How had she gotten here at the right time?

  He didn’t wonder why she had come, even though she’d never come to any meets before, as far as he knew. He knew why she had come. She had wanted him to know whatever it was her being there would tell him, if he saw her. He didn’t have to see her, because he already knew it. Now he just knew it more.

  And she had wanted to watch him run.

  The coach was slapping him on the back, holding out a sweatshirt for him to put on, calling some numbers into his ear, but Bullet didn’t pay any attention to that. He remembered to wonder about the guy from Baltimore, and his attention went back to the course. The coach clapped him on the back and shook his hand and talked. Bullet didn’t listen.

  The second figure down along the quarter mile finish was the blue-eyed guy, running nicely. Over the line, he collapsed onto the ground, sitting with his head between his knees. His coach massaged at his shoulder muscles with his mouth talking. The blue-eyed guy raised his head and looked around for Bullet. Angry.

  Why angry? If he’d run the course like he ran the finish, he’d run well. It was a lovely course to run, smart and tough. Angry because he didn’t win.

  He must have been running to beat out everybody else, which in this case meant Bullet. He must have been in it for the winning. Not Bullet, Bullet was in it for the running. He’d known that before and now he knew it more.

  The guy stood up and spat onto the ground. He turned his back to Bullet, knowing Bullet was watching.

  Bullet grinned. He’ll learn, he thought for a second, then corrected himself: One of those guys who resent mountains because they’re taller maybe. Maybe he won’t learn, can’t.

  A cluster of runners was coming over the approach, and Bullet drifted over to watch. He saw Tamer among them. He saw from the way Tamer was moving that he had run through it and was in control. Along the level finish the group strung out, and Tamer crossed the line second, giving him a fourth in the race.

  Bullet watched the rest of that group come in, saw the next reach the descent, then went over to see how Tamer felt.

  Tamer had rolled over onto his back, but he wasn’t getting up yet. “What a course,” he said.

  Bullet stood there. “Yeah.”

  “You like it. I thought it was a killer.” Tamer sat up. “Were you terrific? Don’t bother to tell me, I know you were—I would have liked to have seen it. Where’d you lose the competition?”

  “I don’t know,” Bullet said.

  Tamer laughed, and Bullet grinned at him. “How about you?” he asked.

  “I was on his heels for about a mile in the middle there and he didn’t like that much.” Tamer thought. “It felt good. He’s a hurdler, Mr. Baltimore, did you know that? So I’ll be seeing him tomorrow. I wouldn’t mind beating him myself. What do you think, do you think I can?”

  Bullet had no idea.

  “He’s looking
at you,” Tamer said, taking a deep, contented breath. “He doesn’t care much for you. Me either, it looks like. Tough luck. Bro-ther.” He stood up, stretched his arms wide. “Have you taken a look at those clouds? Look at them move. They’re something, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah,” Bullet agreed, watching Tamer with regret. Then he looked back to the clouds, once again following their course across the sky.

  CHAPTER 22

  Sunday’s events began at nine, with the hurdles. Bullet got there early, to secure for himself one of the best seats on the course. Overnight, the wind had changed direction and now it blew down the length of the valley from the north. Big, gray-bottomed clouds rode it, like barges. Their bottoms showed flat overhead, but as they floated away you could see white towers rising up from their surfaces.

  Bullet sat in the cold air, watching the sky and the mountains, watching the people arrive and arrange themselves on the stands, watching the competitors come onto the track. Tamer had a word with the coach, then did some limbering exercises. Once he was loosened up, he jogged around the course, taking the far outside track so as not to interfere with the hurdles or with the men working and talking at the center.

  The oval track, its inner and outer edges lined with white fences, looked more than anything else like a plowed field. The dark cinder paths along which the runners would go were edged with white tape and were the color of newly turned earth. The runners would follow along around those paths, like plowmen, Bullet thought, making the lines other runners would follow. In a way. In a way, everybody was plowing on a track. In a way, everybody was on a track, things put you on a track—your time, your nature, things that happened personally to you, things people did, things you yourself did—and you ran it. You kept to your own path, the markings did that for you, kept you on the path; and the fences inside and outside kept you on the track.