The Running Diaries: Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Ben Havleck, February 2016

            Ben came to a stop outside the tall, locked gate. Face to face with the concealed entryway, he paused, examining his predicament. He checked briefly over both shoulders. No one was within sight. Of course, he didn’t expect anyone to be at 5:30 in the morning. He threw the shovel he held in his hands over the fence and then stretched out his open arms to the fence. Climbing quickly, he scaled the obstruction and jumped down to the ground on the other side. Next, he removed the drawstring bag from his back and sat down, unlacing his blue running shoes and switching into a pair of dark brown boots. Then, he finally turned his attention to the track.

            As he trudged through the snow towards where he remembered the start line to be, a small gust of wind sent a shiver down his spine. He walked in silence, besides the crunching of snow beneath his feet. Eventually, he paused and picked his spot to begin. Pointing the shovel down, he struck into the snow for the first time, scooped up a pile of white and tossed it to the side. And then again. The sound of shovel and snow echoed eerily around the empty stadium.

            After he had made five or six incisions, Ben paused for a moment and put down his shovel. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and flipped it open, shining a dim light through the darkness. He had to bend to his knees to properly examine the surface of the track as he scanned for any recognizable marks or patterns. Finally, he spotted it: the edge of a dark mark bordering on the otherwise red surface. Quickly, he grabbed his shovel and chipped away at the area of snow surrounding his discovery. Now, again lowering his eyes and his makeshift flashlight to the ground, he could make out the features of a large number two.

            “Could have been worse” he mumbled into the cold morning air. Turning to his left, he reoriented himself and returned to his tedious work.

            Ben stepped off the bus into the cool, night air. His legs felt fresh and bouncy, his body relaxed and strong. He removed his headphones from his ears and tucked them away inside his coat pocket as he walked through the front doors of the Muhlenberg College Athletic Center. Immediately, he heard the echoing sounds of cheering he had come to associate with indoor track. Peaking in through the first window, he soaked in the packed facility, filled wall to wall with athletes, coaches and spectators. A smile stretched across Ben’s face as he continued to wind his way through the building, walking toward the official meet entrance. A brief look at his watch told him he had made perfect time.

            The Muhlenberg Track Invitational was not the most prestigious meet, but it would feature a variety of top small school athletes. Ben had already analyzed the performance list and been happy to recognize a few names that would be shooting to hit the state qualifying mark in the 3,000 meters just as he was. It was a talented group, but, just as importantly, it was an ideal level of competition. No one was so far ahead of Ben that he would be overwhelmed. 

            As he picked up his hip number at the officials table, he could feel the pre-race jitters crawling around inside his stomach. He could not help but be excited for this opportunity, his first race of the indoor season. There was something special about a track or cross country meet. It was an atmosphere in which Ben felt truly at home. Here, he was comfortable in his own skin, not concerned with fitting in or being cool. And certainly not the new kid.

            Positioning himself on the track’s backstretch, he sat up against the wall and watched as the boy’s 400 meters continued on the track. He stretched out his legs, relaxing his body and trying to fight off the ever increasing nervous energy coursing through his body. He removed his navy blue hat from his head and traded it with his water bottle, tucked within his drawstring bag. Casually, he took a sip, watching a tall, powerful runner in a red and black jersey grind down the backstretch into a commanding five-meter lead.  

            Time seemed to pass slowly as he sat, eagerly awaiting his race. About an hour before he was scheduled to compete, Ben would leave to begin his warm up routine with a jog around the campus. But he was still ninety minutes from his seven o’clock start time. Already he was growing tired of watching the 400 meters. As yet another heat of runners took their places on the track, he decided to kill additional time by meandering over to the bathroom. He took another sip from his water bottle and pushed himself to his feet. 

            Ben wandered back past the registration area into the hallways of the athletic center. He had no idea where the bathroom was, but was in no particular rush to find it. In fact, he kind of liked the idea of exploring. He walked down a long straight hallway, passing a room filled with stationary bikes and a few coaches’ offices. Then he rounded the corner, past some indoor racquet ball courts and up a flight of stairs. This new floor featured a variety of exercise equipment, including treadmills and ellipticals. Cutting down a hallway off to the side, he found a few more coach offices, including the one he had subconsciously been searching for: the head cross country and track and field coach.

            “David Ames,” he read quietly to himself, before pressing his face up against the glass window to the office. The lights had been turned off, but Ben thought he could make out a few items in the room. There was a pair of running shoes in the corner, a desktop computer, a clipboard with splits and a picture of a tall runner in an orange uniform with a medal next to it. There was also a poster on the wall of a pair of runners he didn’t recognize. Both were wearing singlets prominently featuring the signature Nike swoosh.

            Ben imagined the coach, an older man with gray and hair and glasses, firing instructions and creating inspiring race plans. He vaguely remembered his previous high school coaches from his old school, but that was before he had become truly passionate about running. Before he had been able to appreciate just how important a coach could be.

            “Looking for Coach?”

            Ben nearly jumped out of his skin as the voice struck him out of his revere. Walking towards him from the opposite end of the hallway was a taller girl dressed in white and blue sweats. “Um, not exactly … I was just … um,” he trailed off looking for the right explanation. He didn’t think, ‘I was looking for a bathroom’ would be charming or particularly plausible.

            “Are you a recruit?” She looked to be about the same age as Ben, perhaps a year or two older. She stared at him with piercing blue eyes that closely matched her clothes.

            “I-well, are you a recruit?” he tried to sound curious and interested rather than accusatory, but all the same the girl looked slightly taken aback.  

            “Um … yeah, I am actually. Well, sort of,” she paused awkwardly, searching for the right words. “I wasn’t technically recruited, but I … I really wanted to run … so I just emailed the coach to ask what it took to be on the team. And, well, it turns out I was a pretty good recruit for them.” She finished sounding self-conscious. “So … are you a recruit?” She smiled, “Or are you going to keep dodging my questions?”

            Ben laughed. “No … and no,” he replied. They both laughed again and Ben began to feel a bit more relaxed. “I just was doing a bit of exploring and thought this might be a cool place to visit.” He nodded his head in the direction of the window.

            “I’ve never seen his office actually is it cool?” and she walked up next to him to press her own face up against the glass. Ben could smell some type of perfume on her clothes. “I kinda wonder what he’s like, you know?” She turned to face him and Ben’s stomach did a somersault that had nothing to do with his upcoming race.

            “Dunno. Shame he wasn’t here, I would have been curious to ask him a couple questions.”

            “Yeah … oh well, maybe next time. You headed back downstairs?” She asked over her shoulder as she turned to go.

            “Yeah, actually I’ve got a race soon,” he remembered with a jolt. He checked his watch, but, gratefully, still had time to spare.

            “Ooo what are you running?”

            “The 3k.” Together they walked back down the stairs to the first floor.

            She smiled. “Had you pegged for a distance runner from the start. Well good luck …” she trailed off indicating Ben should insert his name.

            “Ben,” he said stretching out his hand.

            “Katie,” she replied taking it. “Nice meeting you, Ben.”

            Even during his most painful and exhausting races, Ben did not truly appreciate how incredibly long 400 meters was. After almost an hour of work, he had barely cleared 150 meters. His back ached from stopping and his hands were throbbing and cracked from gripping tightly to the shovel. But he continued to press on. Every time he wanted to quit, he thought of his 3,000 at Muhlenberg. He thought of the nine minute state qualifying barrier. It bounced around his brain, motivating him to clear each layer, to carve out a bit more of his path. He drove his shovel back into the snow, creating a dull crunch, pulled out the pile and tossed it to his inside, creating another dull thud. It became almost rhythmic and with each chunk he moved, he heard Nine … Minutes. Nine … Minutes.

            The sun began to rise as he closed in on two hundred meters, shining light along his path. He stopped for a moment to look around at his work. Sometimes, he thought, you need to take a moment and appreciate how far you’ve come … rather than worry about how far you still have left to go. He chuckled to himself about his metaphorical subconscious. “I’m going crazy out here by myself,” he muttered. Ben tossed his shovel off to the side and let himself fall back into a pile of snow on the inside of the track. The cold felt good on his aching limbs.

            “Comfortable there, Havleck?”

            Ben sat up in a panic and lunged for his shovel when he heard the voice. His manager from Barnes and Noble, Neal Simmons, was standing in the middle of the turn, leaning on a shovel he had rammed into the snow.

            Realizing he wasn’t in danger, Ben’s fear turned to curiosity. “Neal? What the heck are you doing here?”

            “This is on my way to the gym. Drove by. Looked like you needed some help.” He shrugged. “Nothing to write a novel about.” Neal scanned the track as Ben continued to look at him in surprise. “This isn’t really a one person job, you know.”

            With more of an effort than he would have liked, Ben lifted himself out of the snow to his feet. “But … it’s like 6 o’clock in the morning, aren’t you supposed to be sleeping in or … having fun or …” he looked around bewildered. “Doing literally anything else?” But Neal didn’t respond. Instead, he took up Ben’s former position at the 200 meter mark. “And where did you get a shovel?”

            “Remember, I commute to school every day. Gotta be prepared to battle the elements.” He plowed his tool into the snow and cleared his first patch. He paused dramatically. “Satisfying … but not sure it’s the most efficient workout.”

            “I’m not doing it as a workout I’m-”

            “Shoveling out the track so you can do a workout. Yeah, I know. Again, seems a bit inefficient no?” Neal smiled and took a few steps forward in the snow to clear a spot for Ben to join him.

            “And yet you are still helping me?”

            “And yet I’m still helping you.” Neal made another dent in the ice before Ben filed in behind him to get to work on his section. “I guess we’re both idiots.”

            With a bit of a renewed spirit thanks to Neal’s arrival, Ben found shoveling much more enjoyable.

            “So how’s that girlfriend of yours doing? Megan … or Courtney … what’s her name?” Ben asked as he removed a particularly heavy patch of snow.

            “Yes,” Neal replied, “But I wouldn’t really call them girlfriends, I’d say they are just girl friends. You know? Right now I have a bunch of girl friends, but nobody is a girlfriend.”

            “Wait … what’s the difference?”

            “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Neal took a few steps forward to make sure he and Ben were still adequately spread out. “Anything happen with you and that Nicole girl from Math class?”

            “No … there hasn’t really been an opportunity yet, I’m not really sure how I feel about here anyway, I mean-ouch!” Ben took a snowball to the chest from Neal who was now preparing a second attack.

            “C’mon Ben, with that attitude there’s never going to be an ‘opportunity’, sometimes you have to make your own opportunities!” He fired another snowball, which Ben was able to swat away with his shovel. “Do you remember the stuff I said?”

            “Um … there was something about questions right?”

            “If you’re uncomfortable, start by asking some questions. Keep it off you and on her for a bit. Plus it’s nice for you to be interested in her rather than all about yourself. That’s just basic Hitch 101 stuff.” Neal paused to hoist another, heavier pile of snow from the path. “Compliments are always good- but appropriate compliments there, Denmark, no more complimenting old ladies on their youthful figure.”

            “Hey, that was one time!” Ben threw his pile of shoveled snow in Neal’s direction. “And why the heck did you just call me Denmark?”

            “You know, your name is Ben, like “Big Ben”, that big clock?”

            “Yeah …”

            “Isn’t that in Denmark?”

            “You’re kidding right?”

            “Denmark-England, it’s all Asia you know?” Ben merely stared at him half smiling, half angry. “Sorry, I know you are super into that social studies stuff … speaking of clocks. Can you remind me about this race you’re planning to do?”

            Ben jogged along the sidewalk surrounding Muhlenberg College, careful to avoid any stray patches of ice. This was perhaps the most nervous Ben could ever remember being for a race. He had psyched himself up for weeks. Every decision he made always centered on the question, “How will this affect my 3k?” His stride was crisp and smooth, his workouts had been very strong and his confidence was high. This was his moment.

            After his jog (exactly fifteen minutes) he went into the gym to begin his stretching and drills. A few other, long, thin runners were populating the gym with their own version of plyometrics. He recognized a few from cross country, including Wyomissing’s Terrence Griffin, who had finished 4^th at the AA state championships. Griffin was the top seed on the performance list at eight minutes and fifty-five seconds. Also in the gym was Colin Brett from Notre Dame in District Eleven. Brett had finished one spot ahead of Ben at states this past fall.

            Once his drills were completed, he cruised one up-tempo stride along the sideline before transitioning into the field house. Once inside, he laced up his spikes and banged out two more strides, accelerating gradually through the turn in the outside lane. He felt strong and powerful. As he walked back towards the starting line, he noticed Griffin striding gracefully in the opposite direction. His speed was impressive, but Ben was not concerned. His only focus was on himself and hitting his splits. Thirty sixes. Seventy twos.

            The officials lined up the athletes on the starting line. It was a twelve-athlete race. Many teams had chosen to leave the meet early and begin their weekends rather than stay until the longest distance event was to be contested. Yet there was still a healthy buzz in the Fieldhouse. Considering essentially everyone who wasn’t racing was finished competing, they were excited and willing to cheer on their teammates with unabashed enthusiasm. As he walked into position, tucking in his maroon t-shirt, he noticed Katie out of the corner of his eye, standing on the first curve with a few teammates. 

            “Good luck,” a runner with an orange and black jersey remarked, extending a hand from Ben’s right.

            “Gah la,” he replied with a small shake and a nod. It was all he could muster through his nerves. Ben tried in vain to steady himself, breathing deeply and slowly. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the starter took his position.

            “Runners set ….”

            Bang!

            Off the runners went, jockeying for position around the first turn. Ben charged forward, but was knocked out of position by a bigger runner to his inside. Keeping his balance, he navigated smoothly into a mid pack position, off the rail. He had a comfortable pocket, able to run freely without chopping strides. Heck of a lot better start than the last time I raced.

            At the front of the pack, he recognized Terrence Griffin in white and blue controlling a quick pace. He was flanked by a pair of runners on either side with a small gap already beginning to open up behind them. Patiently, Ben waited until they rounded the track’s second turn and then calmly inched himself forward so that he would not lose contact. A quick look at the clock as he passed by told him his feel for the pace was almost perfect: 35 ticked to 36.

            Returning to the first turn, a wave of noise filled Ben’s ears, overflowing into his thoughts. He tried to keep his head clear and focused, to hold diligently to his pace. Although the top pack was increasing their lead, Ben was content to let them escape. The 3,000 meters was a long enough race that, if he held form, he would have time to reel them back in. Thirty sixes. Seventy twos.

            As he pressed on, keeping a consistent clip, he gradually began to pull away from his pack. But, the trio of leaders was still far enough from his grasp that Ben could not draft off them or gain any substantive advantage from chasing. Determinedly, he pressed on, running solo. He glanced again at the clock as he went through lap five, hitting his split in roughly three minutes. It was exactly the pace he needed for a state qualifying mark. Yet he still was not making up ground on the leaders.

            Terrence Griffin continued to hammer from the front, looking relaxed and smooth. His tall and powerful figure glided along, showing little signs of weakness or fatigue. His two closest pursuers, however, looked neither as graceful nor as comfortable, each fighting themselves to keep contact with the leader’s shoulder. It was these runners that Ben focused his intensity on as he approached the 1600 meter mark. His mouth was beginning to dry and he could feel sweat dripping from his long hair, but he had yet to slip from his consistent pace. Thirty sixes. Seventy twos.

            With over a mile gone by, the race was now adequately spread out and the cheering became more defined. It was becoming hard for Ben to hold form and his most recent lap had slipped a second off his pace. Ahead, Griffin’s furious early pace had allowed him to pull free with a five meter lead. His two pursuers had slipped dramatically out contention, but Ben could not find the extra gear he needed to go after them. The monotony of running nearly nine laps by himself was beginning to take its toll on his mind.

            “Go Ben! You can do it!”

            Rounding through yet another lap, Ben could have sworn he heard someone urging him on by name.  A small extra fire ignited in his stomach, and he forced his legs to turnover a bit faster. His head wobbled slightly from side to side as he pressed forward. A stream of spit had worked its way outside of his mouth along the side of his face. His shoulders were tightening and his form had lost much of its fluidity. But despite it all, he had worked himself back within pace through ten laps. And better yet, he had made his first pass since the early stages of the race, moving into third place overall.

            It was an exhilarating feeling to pass another racer, to feel the thrill of competition once again. It was such a rush, such a high, that he had to experience it again. Holding his head high and keeping his eyes forward, Ben continued to grind around the oval. His head was spinning and his breathing was heavy. The back of his throat burned from the indoor air. Forcing himself into a steadying breath, he locked his eyes ahead of him and focused on making another pass. As he hit the eleventh lap, he found himself in second place.

            Many in the crowd had begun to take notice of Ben’s furious charge in the second half of the race. Having finally usurped both stragglers, he was free to focus everything he had left on Griffin. Although Ben’s charge from the middle of the pack had been arduous, Terrence Griffin’s journey through 2400 meters had perhaps been more challenging. Since the race’s start, he had led the entire race and set a blistering pace with no help and no one to chase. Subconsciously, he had become complacent in the middle stages of the race, feeling victory was nearly assured.   This small moment of mental weakness had provided Ben an opportunity to surprise.

            As the duo approached the finish line for the 13^th time, Ben had made his way within a few short strides of Griffin’s shoulder. I have to make a pass now and pass hard. Otherwise, I won’t be able to kick with him on the last lap. His eyes wandered once again to the clock, which read 7 minutes and 47 seconds. If he kept up the pace he had held over the most recent mile, he would punch his ticket to the state championships. But I’m on pace, I don’t need to do anything crazy. The searing pain in his throat whispered to him, hoping he would relax rather than press on. Thirty sixes. Seventy twos.

            He sat just behind Terrence, both runners pressing around the track, the noise increasing around the Fieldhouse as the battle neared its climax.

            “Go Terrence! Come on, Ben!”

            For the first time, Terrence checked over his shoulder, finally realizing there was danger present behind him. He and Ben locked eyes for a brief moment, the later noticing a combination of surprise and panic in the eyes of the former. In an instant, Will was off and sprinting and Ben, who lacked the gift of speed, felt suddenly powerless. I can’t stay with him. I just need to hold pace, anyway. Winning doesn’t matter. But his body was becoming increasingly tired with every step. The energy and spark he had been utilizing laps earlier had faded into complete flatness.

            He heard the bell up ahead of him as Terrence powered through the line, exploding with one final surge. The gap had swelled once again to an insurmountable margin. Ben, his head now flailing wildly, had eyes only for the clock as he checked one final split. I just need a thirty six! That’s it! You can do this! He screamed inside his head, chanting positive thoughts, doing everything he could to will himself to a state qualifying time.

            The final lap seemed to stretch on endlessly, with Ben pumping furiously to get to the finish. He was lapping runners now, moving slightly to the outside of lane one, trying to use every remaining pass as extra motivation. When he finally turned onto his last straightaway, his eyes went instantly to the clock. Griffin had already crossed the line, but the electronic timer continued to tick. 8:56 … 8:57 … Ben prayed for it to stop moving so fast … 8:58 … 8:59 … he tried to throw himself forward, watching in agony as his last seconds ticked away … 9:00 … 9:01 …

           

            “Official time was 9:01.50. So I missed the state championship qualifying time by a little over a second.” Ben spoke the last words with a mixture of venom and disappointment, accenting the conclusion to his story with a particularly angry bit of shoveling. “I only had enough money saved up for one qualifying race and then the state championship, which would have been today up at Penn State.”

            “So you used the rest of the money on this next race you’re doing? Take another shot at states?” Neal asked. He was sitting in a pile of snow, his shovel laying to his right, as he listened intently to Ben’s story.

            “No, I decided to save it. Wait for something important. If I wasn’t going to be able to run states, I didn’t want to waste money trying to get a qualifying time you know?” Ben chipped away at another patch of white snow, grimacing slightly. His hands were sore and callused, but it was an invisible wound that stung him most.

            “So I’m confused … what’s this next race you said you were planning?”                    

            “It’s here …” he cleared another block of ice, “Tonight.” With one final strike, Ben removed the last bit of white that had concealed lane one of Bloomsburg track. “I’m time trailing a 3k tonight, here on our track.”

            “Tonight? Are you crazy? After all of this shoveling?” Neal touched his own pulsing arms gingerly. “Why not just wait?”

            “It has to be tonight. Same day as the state meet. I’ll see exactly where I stack up against everybody else. Besides, what if it snows tomorrow? And all this hard work is wasted?” Ben plopped down in the snow next to his friend. “No, it has to be tonight.”

            Together the pair laid in the snow in silence. The sun was now shining brightly upon their work, adding an extra layer of warmth, melting pieces of white that may have escaped their plow.

            “I feel like I just need a few extra-long intervals. That should make my finish better.” Ben blurted out, half to Neal, half to himself. “Also, I’ll need to maybe get out a couple seconds faster. Or maybe just throw in a surge in the middle part of the race …” He couldn’t stop himself from reanalyzing his race. Trying to figure out what he had done wrong.

            Neal sat up from his position in the snow. He stared down at Ben who seemed lost in his own world, staring at the sky. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but then paused. Instead, he pushed himself up to his feet and extended his hand.

            “Come on Havleck, let’s get you some breakfast.”

            Ben took it and pulled himself to his feet. Together, the duo gathered up their shovels and set course back towards the fence they had climbed over upon arrival.

             

            In a fog of exhaustion and fatigue, Ben stumbled off the track. He wiped the spot of drool from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand as he hobbled over to the nearest trash can. He coughed violently, leaning over its edge, but nothing came forth. Finally, he lifted his head, looking around for a place he could sit and regroup.

            “Great race, Ben!” The compliment came from a high pitched voice to Ben’s left. Katie was standing a few feet away smiling at him.

            “Thanks,” he said weakly, forcing himself into a small smile. He pushed his arms off the trash can and shuffled slightly to turn towards her. “I heard you cheering … it-um-it helped.” He was becoming increasingly aware of how sweaty he was.

            “Yeah, you ran great! We were both really impressed!” she turned over her shoulder looking for someone. “Hey Terrence!” Ben watched in confusion as Terrence Griffin turned from a group of well-wishers and wandered over to join them.

            “Hey, nice right man,” he said, extending a hand to Ben, who took it and shook it half-heartedly. As the pair stood face to face, it struck Ben how much taller Griffin was than him.

            “Ben, this is my boyfriend Terrence,” she said putting her arm around Terrence’s waist. “We run together at Wyomissing.” The pair turned and smiled at each other. Despite himself, Ben found it cute. “I saw you were way in the back and then all of a sudden you made up all that ground! You gave me a little scare!”

            “Ha, yeah I guess so,” Ben tried to force himself into another false grin after his lackluster response. He was having a hard time keeping his frustration out of his voice. The wounds from his defeat were too fresh for anyone to be spilling salt in them whether intentional or not.  

            “Yeah, it was kinda a good wake up call for me,” Griffin piled on with what he mistakenly saw as a compliment. “Where exactly do you run for?” He added, examining Ben’s tattered gym uniform.

            “I run for Bloomsburg High … we’re a small school in AA.” Ben looked at the ground as he spoke, growing increasingly embarrassed by his circumstance. 

            “Huh, never heard of it. Well tell your Coach, he can get cheap running singlets online. No reason you should have to race in that,” he gestured at Ben’s shirt.

            “Yeah, I’ll let him know,” Ben lied. Flashing one last fake smile, he gathered himself to leave. “I gotta cool down, but maybe I’ll see you guys at another meet some time?”

            “Yeah, maybe!”

            “Sounds good, man. How far are you thinking of going, maybe I’ll jump in if you don’t mind?”

            Of course I mind, Ben thought to himself. “Sure, always nice to have company. I’ve got another six left to do tonight,” he replied.

            “Six?!” Terrence looked at him appalled. “Geez, you are on your own with that one man …”

            “Haha fair enough,” This time Ben smiled in earnest.

            Seven miles later, his cool down was complete and he was forcing himself to think about other things. Like where he might be able to buy a shovel.