wouldrely on his kick. He had to save himself for the half mile. He wasn’t feeling any
surplus of energy at the moment. Yawning, he pulled off his sweat pants and put his
right foot a quarter of an inch behind the starting line.
“We’ll go at the gun, gentlemen,” the starter said, a short fat man with a cigar hanging
out the corner of his mouth. He pulled out his black pistol and aimed at the sky.
“Set!” Tony took a breath and held it, staring at a point ten yards in front. He thought
he heard Alison shout his name and smiled just as the gun went off. The distraction
cost him a tenth of a second before he could even begin.
Gabriel was either a rabbit or else he was extremely confident of his endurance. Tony
was two strides in back of the guy’s stagger going into the first turn. And he was
working. No matter how he trained, some days he was simply flat, and he knew this
was one of those days as he reached the first quarter-lap white post. He was not unduly
concerned. He had such faith in his superior physique that he was still positive he
would win.
Yet when they straightened into the backstretch and he saw that he had failed to gain
ground on Gabriel’s stagger, which he should have done automatically, he began to
worry. His breathing was ragged and he couldn’t seem to get his rhythm. He would have
to gut this one out. Driving his arms, he willed the gap between them to close.
The final curve was agony. The quarter mile, whichrequired as much strength as speed, was never easy, but this was ridiculous. Each
gasp squeezed tighter a red hot iron clamp around his lungs. He must be coming down
with something, he thought, a heart attack, maybe. Hitting the straightaway, he finally
managed to draw even with Gabriel, which is exactly where he wanted to be at this
point. The problem was, he couldn’t get in front of the dude. His legs were—in the
words of the sport—going into rigor mortis. All the way to the tape, which had never
approached so slowly, he thrashed with his arms, the only thing pulling up his knees.
Five yards from the finish, he had somehow managed to slip a body width behind. He
had no choice. He threw himself at the line. The tape did nothing to break his fall.
Nevertheless, it was a relief to feel it snap across his chest. He had won.
The cigar-puffing starter helped him up and slapped him on the rump, congratulating
him on a thrilling victory. His teammates jubilantly pumped his hands and Coach Sager
went so far as to hug him. Tony received the gratitude in a hazy blur of oxygen debt.
But he distinctly heard his time—49.5. He had run 48 flat last week and had finished
waving to the crowd. He had to be sick. He couldn’t be getting old.
The half mile was in half an hour. Normally, he jogged steadily between the two events.
Today he staggered about unable to find his sweats. He had another lemonade from the
ice chest and had to struggle to keep it down. His digestivetract felt like it was digesting itself. Had this not been such a crucial meet, he
would have called it a day.
“You looked like you were running in mud,” Neil said unhappily, popping out of nowhere,
holding his sweats. Tony took them but felt too weak to put them on. “Are you OK?”
“I’ve felt better.”
“You’ve looked better. I’m glad you won but don’t you think you should forget the half?”
He leaned over, bracing himself on his knees, shaking his head, which seemed to be
coming loose. “We need the points.”
“Then at least get out of the sun for a few minutes. Go sit under the stands.”
That sounded like good advice. “I will.”
Neil turned away. “I’m going to help at the pole vault. I tell you again, don’t run
if you’re sick. It’s not worth it.”
Tony dropped his sweats and stumbled toward the seats. Several people, mainly girls,
shouted his name and he answered with a vague wave. By sitting down he was
surplus of energy at the moment. Yawning, he pulled off his sweat pants and put his
right foot a quarter of an inch behind the starting line.
“We’ll go at the gun, gentlemen,” the starter said, a short fat man with a cigar hanging
out the corner of his mouth. He pulled out his black pistol and aimed at the sky.
“Set!” Tony took a breath and held it, staring at a point ten yards in front. He thought
he heard Alison shout his name and smiled just as the gun went off. The distraction
cost him a tenth of a second before he could even begin.
Gabriel was either a rabbit or else he was extremely confident of his endurance. Tony
was two strides in back of the guy’s stagger going into the first turn. And he was
working. No matter how he trained, some days he was simply flat, and he knew this
was one of those days as he reached the first quarter-lap white post. He was not unduly
concerned. He had such faith in his superior physique that he was still positive he
would win.
Yet when they straightened into the backstretch and he saw that he had failed to gain
ground on Gabriel’s stagger, which he should have done automatically, he began to
worry. His breathing was ragged and he couldn’t seem to get his rhythm. He would have
to gut this one out. Driving his arms, he willed the gap between them to close.
The final curve was agony. The quarter mile, whichrequired as much strength as speed, was never easy, but this was ridiculous. Each
gasp squeezed tighter a red hot iron clamp around his lungs. He must be coming down
with something, he thought, a heart attack, maybe. Hitting the straightaway, he finally
managed to draw even with Gabriel, which is exactly where he wanted to be at this
point. The problem was, he couldn’t get in front of the dude. His legs were—in the
words of the sport—going into rigor mortis. All the way to the tape, which had never
approached so slowly, he thrashed with his arms, the only thing pulling up his knees.
Five yards from the finish, he had somehow managed to slip a body width behind. He
had no choice. He threw himself at the line. The tape did nothing to break his fall.
Nevertheless, it was a relief to feel it snap across his chest. He had won.
The cigar-puffing starter helped him up and slapped him on the rump, congratulating
him on a thrilling victory. His teammates jubilantly pumped his hands and Coach Sager
went so far as to hug him. Tony received the gratitude in a hazy blur of oxygen debt.
But he distinctly heard his time—49.5. He had run 48 flat last week and had finished
waving to the crowd. He had to be sick. He couldn’t be getting old.
The half mile was in half an hour. Normally, he jogged steadily between the two events.
Today he staggered about unable to find his sweats. He had another lemonade from the
ice chest and had to struggle to keep it down. His digestivetract felt like it was digesting itself. Had this not been such a crucial meet, he
would have called it a day.
“You looked like you were running in mud,” Neil said unhappily, popping out of nowhere,
holding his sweats. Tony took them but felt too weak to put them on. “Are you OK?”
“I’ve felt better.”
“You’ve looked better. I’m glad you won but don’t you think you should forget the half?”
He leaned over, bracing himself on his knees, shaking his head, which seemed to be
coming loose. “We need the points.”
“Then at least get out of the sun for a few minutes. Go sit under the stands.”
That sounded like good advice. “I will.”
Neil turned away. “I’m going to help at the pole vault. I tell you again, don’t run
if you’re sick. It’s not worth it.”
Tony dropped his sweats and stumbled toward the seats. Several people, mainly girls,
shouted his name and he answered with a vague wave. By sitting down he was
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