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Page 13 · column 2 of 6 · from the scan, no model involved
It seems everyone wants to be first. Personally, I like to be right in the middle of the second row, well hidden.
The mark is set and the runners are off. Legs of every description fire like shots from a gun toward Washington. Me, I know what lays ahead and my start is much slower. It’s too hot and the end too far away — my energy has to last much farther than Flint Hill.
I always feel like I must be the last one when I turn the comer from Rt. 522 and start down the Fodderstack road. For a mile you can see the dots of color belonging to gym shorts and tank tops. The pounding of running shoes echoes into the distance. I know I must be the last to leave town.
I was really taking my time — nearly counting each step — sweating, sweating, sweating. God, and I had five miles to go. I move — you know I did not feel I was running — onward. It’s strange how you hear everyone elses footsteps and your own seem soundless.
I slowly descend the first hill, right outside town; the trees offer some shade from the glaring sun. A runner near me remarks that Fodders tack’s gruesomness is not so vile.
I hated to be the one to tell him that this was just the beginning and the last bit of shade for miles.
I come back into the sunlight — the sweat rolling off my head and down my back. This was definitely the last time I was ever going to run this race.
I always tell myself that. I told myself I wasn’t going to do it this year — then I consented. I waited until the last minute to sign up — unintentionally or intentionally forSee
RUNNER, p. 14
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