A THICK MORNING FOG CREPT over the bluffs from the Missouri River and blanketed Macklin. As our bus pulled into the park, we passed a steady stream of runners moving through the gray mist like ghosts. Bundled in sweats, they jogged slowly, shaking off the stiffness of sleep, cold weather, and long bus rides.
I couldn’t believe it when I spotted Dad’s car already parked next to a playground. He was behind the wheel, sipping from a cup of coffee and reading the paper, and Mom was sitting at a picnic table nearby, texting on her phone. Caleb was on the swing set laughing his ass off about something, going so high, the chains went slack at the height of each arc.
“Isn’t that your brother?” Curtis asked.
“Yep.”
“Man, he sure is testing the limits of physics.”
“Yes, he is, and he’ll go even higher.”
The bus finally came to a halt in the parking lot, and Gorsky stood for his customary pep talk, but this morning he kept it brief. “Young men, need I remind you that this is the district state qualifying meet? In other words, it’s do or die!” he announced, his voice booming, and waking Rosenthal and Stuper from their deep sleep. They shook their heads and looked out the bus windows, disoriented.
“Stuper!” Gorsky yelled, trying to rouse him. “Is this going to be your last race of the season?”
Stuper yawned and scratched his head, contemplating Gorsky’s question. “More than likely,” he finally decided.
Gorsky slammed his clipboard down on the bus seat. “Wrong answer!” He surveyed the team, shook his head, and let out a sad sigh. “Unfortunately, for some of you this might be your last race of the year. And for some of you,” he said, glancing at Stuper, “this probably is the last cross-country race of your entire life.”
I looked around the bus at my teammates. Rosenthal and Burpee had some serious bed head going down, Rasmussen’s chin was beginning to droop as he dozed off again, and the rest of the guys on the team looked dazed and groggy.
Gorsky rambled on about tenacity, intestinal fortitude, and some other stuff I was too nervous to take in, before making his final point. “All I’m trying to say, gentlemen, is give this race an honest effort, so when you leave here today you can say to yourself that you gave it your best. You’ve got about an hour before you step on that starting line. Use that time to set a goal for yourself: a time, a place, a guy from another school you’ve never beaten. Challenge yourself, and leave here today knowing that you took a risk, tested your limits, and gave everything you had out there,” he concluded, pointing toward the course. He took a moment and scanned the bus, looking each of us in the eye. “That’s all I have to say.”
The guys on the team slogged down the aisle off the bus like they were headed toward their execution, and Gorsky shook hands with each of them and grumbled a few words of encouragement. As I approached him he tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for Curtis and me to take a seat and wait until the bus emptied.
He looked first at Curtis. “Kaufman, is this going to be the last race of your high school career?”
“Are you joking, old man?” Curtis laughed. “Hell no.”
“Just checking,” Gorsky said, patting him on the shoulder. “But do you have a strategy in mind if this little game plan of yours doesn’t work?”
“Not going to happen, Coach,” Curtis scoffed. “And the last thing I need right now is you planting seeds of doubt in Coughlin.”
Gorsky then looked at me. “How about you, Coughlin? You good to go?”
“I hope so,” I said.
“Hope?” Gorsky asked. “It’s going to take a lot more than hope, Leo,” he said, laughing. “It’s going to require guts, talent, and brains,” he said. “You can do this, son, but you’re going to need to use your head as much as your body.”
Gorsky turned to Curtis. “Kaufman, you’re going to have to run smart as well. If you’re going to take over this race early, you’d better know your threshold. You cross it, and you might not have anything left for the finish.”
“I’ve got it,” Curtis said.
Gorsky gathered his clipboard, zipped up his jacket, and looked over his shoulder at us as he stepped from the bus. “Gentlemen, it’s as cold as a well-digger’s ass out here,” he told us. “Get yourselves a good warm-up in and I’ll meet you at the starting line.”
“Ready?” Curtis asked me.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m ready. By the way, any theories on why a well-digger’s ass would be cold?”
“No idea.”
Twenty schools were participating in the district race, with the top four teams advancing to the state meet. We’d competed against most already this season in duals and invitationals, so I was familiar with the majority of the field. As Curtis and I jogged the course, threading our way through competing teams warming up in tight packs, he pointed out some of the major competition.
“Lucky for us, Fromm and Newcombe aren’t in our district. We’ll worry about them next week. Our biggest concerns are Palermo from Northwest, Snell from Lafayette, Webster from Lindbergh, and Fox from Kirkwood. They’re the guys most likely to place in the top ten and not be from an advancing team either,” he said with certainty. “The way I figure it, the other guys placing will be from the top four teams.”
“Just remind me what to do again and keep it simple,” I said.
“I know these guys well,” Curtis said. “Palermo, Webster, and Fox will blast their way to the front and form the lead pack as soon as the gun goes off. I’ll go with them, press the pace, and mess with their heads,” he explained. “You just get out steady and lock in.”
I nodded. He made it sound simple, but my gut told me it was going to be a little more challenging than that.
“I’ll be with them for the first mile, until that ascent to the bluff,” he continued. “I’m going to push the pace there, and I guarantee they’ll go with me.” He pointed at a redheaded guy in orange warm-ups running ahead of us. “That’s Snell. You hang with him. He’s patient and likely to make his move late in the race.”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked.
“Just stick with him, and he’ll eventually try to make a break for it. I’m betting that will be a little after the two-mile mark. Then it’ll be time for you to execute.”
“How?”
“Just draft off him. Let Snell go by us gradually and just hang a few meters behind. The other guys will try and stick, but they’ll be dead by then. When Snell takes the lead at that point, I guarantee he’ll be looking over his shoulder thinking he’s got this race” he said, laughing, “so do your best to grimace like you’re in serious pain.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“He doesn’t know who you are, Leo. Besides your fifty-sixth-place performance a month back, you’ve done nothing notable in the races. Nobody is going to take you seriously.”
“You didn’t have to remind me about that.”
“Are you kidding, Coughlin? That race was the best thing that could have happened to you this season. None of these guys are thinking about you. And today we’re going to take advantage of that.”
I let his words sink in.
“Wait until the final three hundred meters, then go strong for a two-hundred-meter surge,” he told me. “That should do it. Then settle in and maintain. It will be just you and Snell at that point. Stay with him and wait until the final thirty meters to kick.”
“That’s it?”
“That should do it,” he said with certainty.
“All right, then.”
By race time the sun had burned off the fog and the air had warmed slightly and was easier to breathe. Gorsky met us at the starting line and arranged the team in our narrow alley, placing Curtis and me next to each other. Our team squeezed in, and we shook and jumped in place to keep loose and calm our nerves. Gorsky tapped Curtis and me on our shoulders. “Get out quick,” he told us. “I believe that you can do this, but that’s not what matters. You must believe it yourselves. Be bold.”
Curtis delivered a soft tap to my heart with his fist and nodded. I turned and got myself positioned on the line as the starter gave final instructions. Then it was silent.
I looked straight out to where we’d soon be running and spotted Mom and Dad sitting on the hood of the car, side by side. Dad pumped his fist high, a gesture of good luck and strength. Behind him I saw Caleb continuing to test the limits of the swing set. He appeared at the crest of each swing, and still he pumped his legs to go even higher.
Then the gun exploded, and we were off.
Curtis did exactly what he said he was going to do: he blasted aggressively from the line into the lead. Palermo, Fox, and Webster were in a sizable group that took Curtis’s bait, running at a blazing pace. Just as Curtis predicted, Snell was more sensible, remained calm, and drafted a good distance off the lead. I caught up to him and we settled into a reasonable pace. Clearly this guy had confidence in his own strategy and abilities and was content with trailing the pack.
The first mile was forest trail that circled back to the starting line and finish area. I hung with Snell, and we threaded our way through several runners who went out too quick but weren’t serious contenders. We came through the first mile in just under five minutes, which meant Curtis and the lead pack were flying. As we broke into the first clearing, I spotted him leading a group of eight runners. Snell and I were still a good eighty meters back.
We passed the parking lot playground, where Caleb was still pumping his legs and buckling the chains at the height of his swing. Dad was standing on the hood of the car, but Mom was now atop the picnic table. Dad yelled, “You’re tenth, Leo! Run!”
The second mile headed into another forest trail and led east toward a bluff that overlooked the river. As far as courses went, Macklin was the most beautiful one I’d ever run. The cool morning air, the colorful fall leaves, and the smell of damp earth and stone being crushed beneath my feet provided a rush, and I began to cruise.
As we approached the pivotal hill where Curtis planned to break the race open, I remained patient and maintained a five-meter deficit on Snell. He pushed the pace a bit up the hill, but it was easy to stay with him. I wanted to take off more than anything, but I stuck to the plan and waited.
Snell and I passed three guys on the ascent, and when we crested the hill I saw the lead pack. Curtis was still in front. I knew I was in the top ten, but the crucial portion of the race had yet to begin. Snell and I had closed the gap considerably and were now only thirty meters back. He pressed the pace once more, and we started closing in fast on the leaders.
When we passed Curtis, I allowed a momentary gap between Snell and me. “How are you doing?” I asked him.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s your turn.”
I accelerated and pulled up behind Snell as we gained ground on Fox, Palermo, and Webster. Snell definitely knew what he was doing. He was cruising at this point, clearly relying on patience and his strength to eventually capture the lead. In fact, I sensed he was running too comfortably, so I knew I had to modify the plan. When we pulled beside the lead pack, I surged. It was earlier than Curtis anticipated, but I felt I had enough in me to deliver a quick burst of speed that was intended to be the nail in the coffin and enough to mentally bury them.
Just as Curtis predicted, the three tried to counter with their own surge, but they started dying. Fox glanced over his shoulder a couple of times, and the look in his eyes told me he was hurting. I allowed him, Palermo, and Webster to battle it out with one another for another hundred meters, and then I kicked it up another gear and passed them for good.
It was just me and Snell now. I followed Curtis’s instructions and let Snell pull beside me. I gasped like I was suffering, but I felt awesome.
There were three hundred meters to go, and now I wondered if I’d gone too early and it was going to come back and bite me. I allowed Snell to open up a five-meter lead, and he casually looked over his shoulder a few times. I tried to pretend I was nothing more than an annoying pest, like Curtis had instructed, but I didn’t need to exaggerate my pain, because I was truly beginning to feel it. My shoulders were tightening and my legs were getting heavy. Snell believed he had a comfortable cushion at this point, and all he had to do was unleash his final kick. I couldn’t allow him any more of a lead, and I needed to prepare myself to pounce.
The trail veered left and opened up, a slight downhill and final stretch of flat, grassy field that led toward the fifty-meter roped-off funnel and the finish line.
Snell began his kick as we hit the downhill. I responded and began to gain ground. Not knowing whether this guy had an extra gear, I followed Curtis’s advice and waited until we were inside the funnel and thirty meters from the finish.
The crowd was screaming, and he didn’t hear me coming. When he finally sensed I was on him, he glanced back and tried to accelerate once more. I had him. I pulled up beside him and unleashed my final kick. As I flew by him, he let out a gasp. Seconds later, I broke the tape.
I made my way through the chute, then dropped my hands to my knees for support. I felt a tap on my back and turned to find Snell with his hand extended. He was too exhausted to speak. He closed his fist and tapped his heart two times and gave me a thumbs-up. I shook his hand, exited the chute, and jogged back to where I could see the rest of the runners come in. Fox, Webster, and Palermo were approaching the chute, and Curtis was just a few meters behind them. Of the four, Curtis looked the strongest.
Dad grabbed me from behind and tried to congratulate me, but I shook him off and watched Curtis come in. With twenty meters left, he clenched his teeth, pumped his arms, and elevated his knee lift and cruised past the three other runners to finish in third place. I circled back and met him as he exited the chute.
“What place?” he asked, his arms on my shoulders, panting in exhaustion.
“It was a close one,” I told him, smiling. “Got him at the finish.”
“I told you so, Leo” was all he said.
There was something utterly magical about executing a race exactly as we rehearsed it. Gorsky met us a few minutes later, lugging our gym bags, and he began barking orders. “Gentlemen, keep your celebration brief. Change into your sweats quickly, keep warm, and get in a proper cooldown.”
He tossed our bags at us and finally burst out in a huge smile. “Kaufman, that was perhaps the most courageous race I’ve ever seen from any athlete I’ve ever coached,” he said. “And Leo, that wasn’t too shabby either. You won that race as much with your brains as you did with your body. Well done.”
We removed our spikes, bundled ourselves in our sweats, and jogged back in time to cheer the rest of the guys to the finish. I could still feel the dry burn in my lungs from the race, but my legs felt light and strong. “You do remember what I told you was going to happen if we got to state?” Curtis asked.
“How could I forget?” I told him. “You’re going to kick my ass.”
“Yours and everyone else’s,” he reminded me with a sly smile.
“Wasn’t that something, Elise?” Dad asked as he began to recount the race at lunch. He had his sandwich in one hand and was waving a forkful of potato salad with his other. “He comes out of that forest and chases down that kid from Lafayette and then passes him right at the finish. Spectacular!” he yelled, pounding the table with his fist.
“Could you please not talk with your mouth full?” Mom pleaded. “And could you wipe that potato salad off your chin?”
Dad took another bite from his sandwich and smiled at me. “Honestly, that had to be one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Mom turned and smiled at me. “It was really amazing to watch, Leo. I’m very proud of you.”
“It still really hasn’t quite sunk in yet,” I told them, trying to play it down.
“You know,” Mom began, “my uncle George was a great runner when he was your age. My mother used to talk about him winning races all the time. I’ll see if Grandma has any of his medals.”
“Your uncle George?” Dad blurted, his mouth still full of sandwich. “Your uncle George who had a heart attack when he was fifty? That man was obese. The last time I saw him, he could barely walk across the room. No way he could ever run even ten steps.” Dad emphasized the final words of his sentence by stabbing his fork in the air, this time in Mom’s direction.
Mom got up and began doing the dishes. “He didn’t become obese until he became a chef, you fool,” she told my father. “Leo certainly didn’t inherit his talent from your side of the family, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“And why’s that?” Dad was yelling now.
“As far as I know the only thing your mother and father were good at was—”
“Let’s not start this game!” Dad yelled, holding his hands up to signal a truce.
Mom turned and glared at him. “No. I don’t want to start this game. Let’s just call ourselves even.”
I got up, placed my dish in the sink, and headed downstairs to my room. I could still hear them arguing, but I couldn’t understand what they were yelling about. I wondered if they even knew what they were arguing about anymore.