The Running Diaries: Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Ben Havleck, May 2016

He stared up into the stands. Even this early, they were packed with spectators. It was a larger crowd than he had ever raced in front of and that sent a shiver down his spine.

Ben entered the stadium tentatively and walked past a race official onto the track. His spike bag hung over his shoulder, bouncing up and down with each step. At about the 20 yard line, he settled into a seated position on the warm turf. He tucked one leg in toward his knee and extended his hamstring. It was a little tight. You’re fine, he scolded himself, Don’t get psyched out.

After a few more stretches, he popped up and decided to start his dynamic drills. He cycled through each one, carefully swinging his arms, diligently focusing on proper form. Once complete, he looked round for his water bottle to continue hydrating. A wave of dread crashed over him as he realized he had forgotten it in the cafeteria. Distracted by one of Jimmy Springer’s adoring fans. Beginning to feel panicked, he wandered through the check in zone until he found a water jug and some paper cups. He drank some and then splashed more across his face and arms. Still, he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with these adjustments to his usual routine.

Next, Ben moved onto his strides. He started with a comfortable, long and controlled sprint that covered the length of the football field. He pulled up just before the end zone and gradually eased to a stop. As he stood and recovered, he watched the girls’ race immediately before him take shape. A girl in dark blue was in the lead, flanked by a trio of pursuers wearing green, red and black.

“Let’s go, Quinn!” He cheered and clapped twice as the runners passed. He could feel a slight pull on his throat from his supportive efforts and so he made it a point to grab another cup of water on his return stride. 

Finally, it was time to put on his racing spikes. He slipped them from his bag and held their light frame in his hand. His palms beginning to grow sweaty, he laced up his shoes. 

“Small School 3200!” A man called from the corner of the check in tent. Hastily, Ben slapped a pair of number eight stickers on both hips and jogged across to join the gathering beside the track’s 100 meter mark. A small cluster amassed quickly as runners emerged from all directions.

He recognized a few of his competitors from the state cross country championships, most notably Terrence Griffin of Wyomissing. Ever since Ben had lost to Griffin at the Muhlenberg Invitational, he had been motivating himself for their inevitable rematch. He flexed his fingers subconsciously as a snow covered track flashed across the surface of his mind.

As they gathered together to jog ahead for the start, some of the runners exchanged a nervous nod or hello, but most were quiet and stoic. In total, Ben counted 23 competitors in the race.

The start will be crowded, he noted to himself as he surveyed his competition, But once someone strings it out, there's only a few guys who can handle 70s. 

He toed the line. He leaned forward. He let out one last deep breath. 

Bang!

The starter’s pistol fired into the warm morning air. Ben got off the line well, running with his elbows extended to ward off anyone crashing down on him. He snuck his small frame onto the rail and hugged tight to the first turn. 

Through the opening lap, he remained pinned to the inside, maintaining the shortest distance possible around the oval as planned. He found the pace incredibly easy; and a hurried glance at the clock told him why. They had marched through their initial rotation in 74 seconds. That was nearly 4 seconds slower than Ben’s pace during his personal best run at Coatesville a month earlier.

It’ll pick up, he thought as the pack entered their second lap, Just be patient. 

He felt a small push in his back as the runners behind him jockeyed wildly for position in the congestion. Fortunately, it wasn’t enough to upset his balance, but it did unnerve him.

The pace continued to be pedestrian, allowing a variety of ability levels to stay in contact with the leaders. All around Ben, runners weaved through traffic, dancing in the crowd, searching for ideal position. A few tripped in the tangle of feet, but there were no falls. 

After three laps of uninspired tempo, things were getting increasingly physical. Ben could sense the danger in his position, trapped against the railing, surrounded by flailing bodies. But he was loath to give up his inside hold and run the longer distance.

C’mon, somebody needs to pick it up, he thought angrily. They were coming up on the mile, the half way point of the race, yet still no one had decided to string out the field with an injection of pace. Ben’s mind whirled as he considered his options. He hadn’t planned on taking the lead this early. Knowing that it would take more energy to lead than follow, he had been trying to save his surge to the front for the final two laps. But the longer they jogged along conservatively, the more valuable a strong finishing kick would become. And that play just wasn’t in his playbook.

After one more lap, I’ll mak- But his internal planning was disrupted as a runner in white and black jockeyed with another in red, the former checking the latter to his the inside. Careening off balance, the boy in red ran smack into Ben, knocking him momentarily off the track. 

Alright eff this.

He fought his way back onto the track and surged forward. He busted loose from the rail, seizing a small gap in order to move to the outside. Four quick steps and he was at the front. 

Mark Miller, May 2016

It was fantastic weather at Shippensburg. The clouds slightly obscured the morning sun. The air was almost perfectly still with the exception of an occasional cool breeze, gratefully accepted by the trio of sophomores exiting the parking lot. Even from a distance, Mark could see the bleachers were packed with family, friends and athletes.

“So I guess this meet is like a big deal or something?” Mark chuckled as Ian stepped to his left hip. He too was staring ahead at the stadium.

“It’s 9:25 now, so the small school boys are probably just about to start up. We’ve got like 10 minutes until large schools.” Tom clicked the lock for his car and led the march to the entrance. At the gate, Mark and Ian chipped in for Tom’s ticket and, after their hands were stamped, they trekked around the outside of the track. The small race was well underway, with a short, black haired boy leading the charge. A few runners were hobbling slowly off the back of the pack, unable to handle the pace.

“How fast you think these guys are running?” Ian asked Mark as they passed. “We could totally beat some of these kids if we were in this classification. What a joke.”

The trio lined the fence surrounding the track, stopping their meander to catch the conclusion of the race. The smaller boy was fighting hard at the front of the pack. He was opening up a small lead as the pace continued to take its toll on his competition. Only two runners were even within striking distance behind him. Mark kept his eyes on the clock, trying to estimate the runner’s pace. “I think that lap was like a 67 maybe? So they’re running like 9 minute pace?”

“Yeah-for that lap. But what did they start at? Because total time was like 7:06 when he passed by.” Ian considered his hand briefly. “That’s only 9:28 pace. So they must have started slow.”

“Did you just do that math in your head?” Tom asked, sounding impressed.

“Yeah,” he reached into his pocket for a pair of sunglasses, “I feel like you guys always treat me like I’m an idiot when actually-” As he tried to raise the sunglasses to his face, the edge of frame caught the top section of the fence in front of him. Knocked from his grip, the glasses soared through the air before landing almost ten feet away on the surface of the track. One of the lens had popped out of its hold.

“What were you saying, Ian?”

“ONE LAP TO GO! Havleck, Griffin, McKenzie!” The announcement came booming over the P.A. system as the lead pack of runners surged by. The dark haired boy at the front was straining to keep his advantage. At the 200 meter mark on the far side, suddenly the runners in 2^nd and 3^rd sprang into action. They launched into a full sprint, leaving the initial leader fighting through quicksand to keep pace.

Ben Havleck, cont.

“ONE LAP TO GO! Havleck, Griffin, McKenzie!”

Ben passed the clock and listened to the bell ring beside him. The crowd was on their feet and cheering, blocking out the noise of his increasingly heavy breathing. He knew he had opened up a gap. But by how much? It likely wasn’t significant, but he was at least encouraged that he struggled to hear the breathing and footsteps of his opposition at the same volume he had a few laps earlier. His adrenaline pulsed as he tried to turn up his sprint another notch, praying he could find the gears to bring the race home. The title on the tip of his tongue.

As he turned toward the back stretch, a new wave of fans greeted him. Although this crowd was slightly smaller, the cheering still overwhelmed his eardrums. Unable to discern any information through listening, he resisted the overwhelming urge to look over his shoulder at the trailing group. Just sprint. Sprint as hard as you can. He was now approaching the last turn. Only half a lap stood between him and the state championship. Ben put his head down slightly and tried to rally his legs for one last surge.

Then, as he approached a quieter section of the track, he heard it. Footsteps. Turning over quickly. Much quicker than his own. He pumped furiously, his head swinging wildly, desperately trying to float forward. A runner in a white jersey flew by him and blasted into the final straightaway, almost as if Ben was standing still.

Although they never touched, the blow struck Ben as if he had been punched in the chest. As much as he tried to fight back, the pain in his legs was crippling him and the motivating forces he had been using to fight back, previously extracted from hope and confidence, were draining from his mind. He hobbled further toward the finish, weakly pumping his arms, enthusiasm lost. Then, when he thought his suffering could not be worse, he felt the anguish of another, final pass. This time, it was his rival Terrence Griffin.

“It’s going to be McKenzie! 9:17! 62 seconds for the last 400 meters!”

Ben stumbled off the track and onto his back. The cheers from the packed stands continued to roar around his addled mind as he struggled for breath. The last mile was still a blur with few discernible details. He remembered making his surge. Holding the lead tenuously in his hands. And then struggling home. Not much in between. None of his precious numbers or statistics floated to him. Just feelings. Impatience. Excitement. Dejection.

Gradually, other runners came sprinting across the finish. The ground became scattered with others who were too exhausted to stay on their feet. He sat up and looked around at all those competitors he had just beaten. And yet somehow, he had never felt more defeated.