On the Road to Find Out by Rachel Toor

saw there is no such thing as a “runner’s body.” Some looked smooth and efficient, and others—even those who were in the front—did not seem like they should be able to move so fast.
    Miles and Joan, both skinny, compact, and typically athletic, were, I realized, kind of exceptional. Plenty of people at the race had extra pounds around their middles, or substantial boobs and womanly hips, and some of the men had big bellies and some even had what you’d have to call blubber butts. Or no butts at all.
    They also spanned the ages. The youngest was an eleven-year-old girl who ran superfast, and the oldest was, no kidding, old. I mean, great-grandfather old. But when he came through our water station he was far from last. He had on a baseball cap with a feather sticking out of it and he greeted Miles with a slap on the shoulder and a smile that made it look like there was nowhere on earth he’d rather be, and nothing he’d rather be doing. He upended a cup of water into his mouth, said, “Gotta go,” and booked down the trail.
    â€œThat’s Bob Hayes,” Miles said, after the man had made the turn. He said it the way you might say “That’s Bill Gates” or “That’s Scarlett Johansson.” Or even, “That’s God.”
    â€œEighty-six and still doing marathons.”
    I did the math in my head. “26 miles?” I’m sure Miles thought I was brilliant.
    â€œ26.2.”
    Toward the end, small groups of mostly women jogged or walked, laughing and talking. As they came by they said things like, “What a great day for a run,” and a tall woman with long blond hair looked at me and asked, “Aren’t we fortunate to be able to be out here doing this?” She thanked me for giving up my Sunday morning to help.
    When I said to Miles that the people at the back of the pack seemed to be having more fun than the fast ones, he said, “It’s a different kind of fun. Personally, I can’t imagine doing a race and not going as hard as you can, but whatever.”
    After the last runners had come through, Joan drove up in her car and we loaded in the table and the now-full garbage bag, and she thanked us in her perky voice and drove off.
    Stunned that she would leave us in the middle of nowhere, I looked at Miles and said, “WTF?” Then I got embarrassed because what if he didn’t like girls who curse, even though, technically, I had not cursed.
    â€œNow we sweep the course,” he said.
    I thought: Sweep? Are you kidding me? We have to clean up all that flour he spilled on the ground?
    Miles had crammed all his stuff into his pack and slung it on his back. Then he raised his chin toward the trail.
    â€œWanna?” he asked.
    â€œWanna what?”
    â€œRun. Go ahead, take the lead. We’ll just do the last part of the trail to make sure no one has gotten hurt or lost.”
    He said it would be slow, since he’d raced the day before and had done a shake-out run that morning. “We’ve got just two miles back to the start,” he said, and I thought, right. Just two miles.
    I began running, and was winded in about four steps. I could barely hear Miles behind me—he ran silently and didn’t seem to need to breathe.
    Miles must have heard me panting. People on the other side of the ocean probably heard me panting.
    â€œSo what do you like to read?” he asked.
    â€œBooks,” I barked out. I could not manage more than one syllable at a time.
    â€œHere, let me go ahead,” he said, and he glided past, brushing me on the arm as he went by. Then he slowed way down. He said, “Do you know why a marathon is 26.2 miles?”
    Even though the pace had slackened, and my view had improved—his butt in those tights was supercute—I still couldn’t catch my breath. No way could I have a normal conversation while running. Miles seemed to sense this. He just started