The Runner Stumbles

 

 

He saw the towering trees, the green leaves, a distant nest (or was it simply a mesh of twigs?), the sky’s cupola, the clouds speeding around the track like white runners, the clouds rushing toward the finish line, he saw the moon at midday, the moon that had appeared silently, discretely, situating itself at an almost imperceptible angle to the landscape, the birds with their games, their own tournaments, ceaselessly flying here and there, he saw dark wings cutting through the air, sumptuous movements, with his eyes he followed their unforeseeable course, their routes; collapsed, on the ground, through astonished eyes, he saw all that.

He was on the fourteenth lap. He was a good runner. The newspapers had predicted he would win, even set a new record. For years they had been waiting for a new record, people are always waiting for things like that. And now there was that theory suggested by a Brazilian physicist, probably a lunatic, it seemed to him: the speed of light is not always the same. ‘What could that mean?’ he asked himself. The newspapers had said that he might break the record. So, had Einstein been wrong? Or was it that light was trying to break a record, just like he was? And people were crowding around the track, the fifteenth lap, he was in the lead, way ahead, because he was born to run, the sun radiating heat, so much heat (what did born to run mean?), these marvelous feet. The announcer saying, ‘An extraordinary pace on the sixteenth lap, two-thirds of the way there,’ long-distance runner, steady pace. From the start he hadn’t hesitated to break away from the rest of them, to make it clear from the outset who was going to win; if they thought he was going to hold back, reserve his energy and not break off from the pack, save the final struggle - the merciless struggle - for the final few meters, they were wrong: free of their elbows, with no one in his way, with the whole track ahead of him, he was running as fast as light, that is if light travels through space at a constant velocity. Somewhere - outside the oval-shaped track he was running around time and again, torturously, like in a dream - his coach would be nervously checking his watch. So the speed of that ray of light that hit the track was not constant? Constant, like his pace? Lap number nineteen, only seven more to go, for that ray of light hurled like a yearning runner; everyone else was behind him, he’d passed them several laps back, so it was just a matter of beating someone, the legendary runner who’d set the last record, up to now the definitive record, if light moves at a constant speed. On the twenty-first lap, he felt he was about to achieve his goal; although fatigued, his rhythm was excellent, he was progressing around the track at a steady pace, his movements nimble and light, like those of a gazelle - in the words of the announcer - elegant, as if for him there was nothing difficult about running. In a confused sort of way, he could make out the faces of the spectators, but there was n0 need to see them more clearly, only the track was circulating in his brain, the coach would have his eyes riveted on his stopwatch. Then he lapped the young runner with red hair and blue shorts whose tired pant didn’t bode well for him, then runner number seventeen, trailing far behind, several laps back, still on a lap he’d left long ago, with the spot of sun on the track. Everyone’s eyes were clouding over, their eyes filling with sweat, throbbing. According to his count, he had only three laps to go, three laps till the little man with the chessboard-like flag would let him collapse after crossing the finish line, the finish line, the end of the track, the ribbon that would say the insane race was behind him, and he heard a shout, just one shout, and it was his coach who must have been announcing that he was about to do it, that he was going to set a new record, clock the best time in the world for the ten thousand meters, ten thousand perfectly flat meters.

That was when he felt an enormous urge to stop. It wasn’t that he was so tired; he had done his training and the experts had all said he would win the race; in reality, he had only been running to set a new record. And now this undeniable urge to stop. To fall on the side of the track and never get up again. Careful: if a runner’s down, you can’t touch him. If he gets up on his own, he can continue running. But not if someone helps him to get back up on his feet. This uncontrollable urge to sit down on the side of the track and look at the sky. Surely, he thought, he’d see the trees. A fistful of branches with quivering leaves, and up at the top, a nest. The smallest leaves fluttering in the wind, in the light wind that alters the speed of light forever, which is no longer constant, according to the Brazilian physicist. I’m nothing special, ma’am,’ he’d told a slightly senile fan the other night. I’m just an expert at organizing time.’

Excited, the coach gave him a signal: just one lap to go. Just one more. And his pace remained steady. He passed a panting runner who had his hand on his waist. Oh, that sharp pain below the ribs, that pressure that makes it hard to breathe. If you feel it, you’re done for and you may as well get off the track. But out of self respect, you can’t. That pain was in the spleen, an organ people rarely discuss because it only bothers you when you’ve exerted yourself in some unusual way, when you’ve run too much, as he’d learned after years of training. And this strange, uncontrollable desire to quit, to stop on the side of the track, to look at the trees, to breathe deeply. Every lap is the same, in your memory one merges with another and you don’t know if you’re on the twenty-third or the twenty-fourth, on the sixteenth or the seventeenth. Like that poor guy who thought he’d reached the finish line and threw himself on the ground. Someone - his coach, probably, or one of the referees - came up to him and, without touching him, gave him the news that he wasn’t there yet, that he’d miscounted: he still had three laps to go. And there he was, unable to get up off the ground, his muscles stiff. And if he got up, it would only be to continue running - if he didn’t faint first, that is.

Nothing like that would ever happen to him. He ran naturally, as if running were the most normal thing in the world, as if he could run forever. Regularly, but with a constant, unchanging velocity, unlike that of light, which had betrayed him, which now seemed to move inconsistently. He was on the verge of breaking a record. And then, the ecstasy of allowing himself to fall; that hallowed, sublime ecstasy of stopping, of softly slipping off the track, just a few meters from the end, just a little before the finish line, of slipping calmly to the ground and raising his head, oh those tall trees, the blue sky, the slow clouds, the curly branch ends, the leaves fluttering, raise his eyes and watch the measured flight of birds, there’s gibberish all about but he does not hear it, words of reproach surely, insults surely, his coach exasperated, seeing the other runners pass by, their shorts, some positively panting, that one with his hand on his side, you won’t finish, you won’t make it, but up above, the trees were floating, floating in an illusory realm no one could see, now the blond runner with a cramp, hobbling on - have I ever seen that bird before? - the announcer telling of the incredible success, like light, his speed is constant, but he had the urge to stop. And he raised his eyes toward the sky.