GORSKY CUT OUR MILEAGE in half the final week to rest our muscles for the final race. We didn’t know what to do with all our excess energy, so by Friday morning’s departure we were bouncing off the walls. I was plenty nervous, but Curtis was an absolute train wreck.
We met Gorsky outside at his van and climbed in with our bags.
“Got everything?” Gorsky asked.
We nodded.
He turned to Curtis. “Spikes?”
Curtis blasted from his seat like someone had hit the ejection button. He sprinted back toward the locker room. For once I wasn’t the more nervous one.
Gorsky turned to me. “So how are you feeling, Leo?”
“Awesome,” I told him. “What could be better than a day off of school?” It was even better to be getting out of my house for a night, but I wasn’t going to mention that. He knew me only as a runner, and that was good enough.
“You ready to run fast?” he asked.
“Curtis says the course is a beast.”
He laughed. “He’s right about that. It’s a true cross-country course. The winner won’t necessarily be the fastest guy, but he’ll definitely be the strongest.”
“Think Curtis has a shot?”
“Of course he’s got a shot. But he’ll need to run a smart race like you did last week.” Curtis burst from the building and jogged toward the car. “Speak of the devil.”
“Onward!” Curtis yelled.
As soon as we hit the interstate, Curtis pulled out this old crumply photocopy of last year’s program with a map of the course and gave me the lay of the land. “It’s going to be an ass-kicker from the start,” he explained. “As soon as the gun goes off, we climb a long, steep incline, and then it’s basically a roller-coaster ride. This course is going to beat the crap out of most guys’ legs by the end of the first mile if they go out too fast.”
We looked at the list of previous state champions and their times. For a 5,000-meter course the times were relatively modest. “Not very impressive times,” I said.
“It’s all relative, Leo. It’s not a fast course,” he agreed. “But it’s my course.”
The drive to the capital took a little over two hours. Gorsky wouldn’t let us touch his CD player. Instead he introduced us to some guy named Herbie Hancock, and the smooth, mellow sounds actually settled Curtis. He walked me through my role as the sacrificial lamb in his quest to become state champion, just as he’d been for me in the district race. He reviewed the course topography in precise detail, drawing lines and arrows to mark the inclines and descents. His strategies and explanations weren’t really necessary, but I allowed him to ramble. My job was quite simple. When that gun went off, I was to take off like a bat out of hell and let everyone chase me, just like they chased him at district.
The Ramada Inn looked like a tank of tropical fish. The parking lot was filled with school buses and vans from all over the state, and cramming the lobby were runners in sweat suits of all colors looking one another over, some measuring themselves against tomorrow’s competition. Curtis once more came unglued. “Don’t look anybody in the eye, Leo,” he mumbled as we made our way to the front desk.
I was feeling loose for once and enjoying the reversal of roles. “Jesus, Curtis, can you relax?” I asked him. “You’re acting like we’re about to rob the place.”
“Everybody is just trying to get into each other’s heads at this point. I can smell the nervous energy.”
I inhaled deeply. “I think most of it’s coming from you.”
“Shut up, Leo.”
We took our bags to our room, changed into our running clothes, and headed over for a final preview of the Oak Hills Golf Center, where the race was being held. Gorsky parked his van and told us to meet back up with him in ninety minutes. I looked around at the cast of hundreds in their school colors, jogging, striding, and doing sprints, and finally got sucked into the collective nervous energy. I broke into our customary warm-up jog to take the edge off.
“Easy, Leo,” Curtis said. “Let ’em run. We’ve already put in plenty of miles to get here. We’re going to walk today.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Stay relaxed,” he told me. “I’m going to need you to focus now.” We walked over to the starting line, a long white line of chalk dust across the fairway. Curtis stood behind the left side of the line and pointed toward the first portion of the course, a level fairway that extended about seventy-five meters before curving into a steep ascent.
“This is a par-five hole. It’s the longest hole on the course. That hill up ahead is almost four hundred meters before it crests, and it gets steeper as you ascend. Four hundred meters,” he repeated. “That’s a monster. It’s how the race begins, and it’s how this beast ends.” He pointed at a funnel of red and white flags leading toward a tent on the far right side at the top. “That’s the finish line up there.”
He then directed my attention to a small sign and a line of yellow flags opposite the tent. “When the gun goes off tomorrow, it’s going to be chaos. There will be plenty of fools chasing early glory. By the time you reach that sign up there, I want you to be in the top five,” he said. “And if anybody is trying to open up on you, go with them.”
I thought it was a pretty hefty challenge, but I played it cool and said nothing.
“That’s going to take a little bit of work on your part, but if you’re careful and alert and don’t fall down in the first seventy-five meters, you’ll be fine.” We walked down the fairway toward the first hill. “Just be careful,” he told me. “And be aggressive.”
As we walked the course, the map we’d reviewed in Gorsky’s van came to life. Curtis was certainly right about one thing: there wasn’t much flat ground. He reminded me to allow my body to roll with the terrain and let gravity do the work.
I would let my body fall down the hills with quick, light steps and have momentum carry me upward until I naturally felt the moment my muscles needed to respond and propel me upward. If I didn’t, he said, this course would beat the living crap out of me.
“Keep your arms pumping, Leo. Short, quick strides when it’s steep, lengthen when the hills begin to open up,” he reminded me. “Running is nothing but leaning forward, eyes and nose over your shoelaces, just letting gravity do the work. Racing is nothing but running full tilt, leaning a little farther forward, and moving your legs fast enough that you don’t frickin’ fall down. It’s a balance between running with reckless abandon and staying in control. If you find that balance, you feel like you’re flying.”
“I got this, Curtis. Just win the damn race.”
Still walking the course, Curtis began pointing out the guys I had to manage. “Keep an eye on that dude,” he said, pointing to a tall, lanky runner in a black sweat suit. He mentioned names and pointed out a few more notables, but I was no longer listening. I’d already decided I was simply going to take the lead when the gun went off and hang on for as long as I could.
That night Gorsky took us to Bones, this little place a few blocks from the old Missouri State Penitentiary. “All that nonsense you hear about carbo-loading before a race is bunk,” he told us as he marched ahead of us. “You’re running three measly miles—not a marathon. Now’s not the time to fool with your body. Eat what you normally eat.”
“Sounds good to me,” I agreed.
“He just wants to have a steak,” Curtis mumbled.
The place didn’t have much in terms of pasta or pizza, but Curtis caved and ordered their burgers and fries, which Gorsky promised were legendary. We settled into a booth, and Gorsky and Curtis got into a lively debate about whether America should get out of Iraq, while I zoned out to a Seinfeld rerun playing on this rickety old television dangling from the ceiling in the corner. It was a quick dinner, as Curtis mandated that lights be out by nine.
I was wide awake as I lay in bed that night. I couldn’t figure out if it was because I was actually nervous about the race or because I generally don’t like hotels or if it was something else. The hotel room smelled funny, and it always creeped me out being in a bed that’s been slept in by God knows how many strangers. So I slipped out the door to the hallway balcony overlooking the hotel’s empty kidney-shaped swimming pool.
Staring at the pool, of course, made me think about Caleb. I was happy to be away from him for the night. He was really starting to scare the crap out of me, and that pissed me off. Then I felt guilty for feeling that way, because I knew he couldn’t help it. Just a year ago things were fine between us, but now I was beginning to wonder if he wanted to kill me. I tried rewinding the year, searching for the turning point, a pattern, the trigger that flipped some switch inside him, but came up empty. I was left with just my gut feeling that he was getting more and more frustrated and angry that his younger brother was leaving him in the dust.
It was past midnight and I figured I’d better go back to bed and try to fall asleep. But my mind wouldn’t shut down. I wondered if I was destined to never get a good night’s rest. As I lay awake listening to Curtis snore, I thought about how I might become a better brother.