Runs in the family
"HIGHLY COMMENDED" Cut Short 2005 CAE Short Story Competition
I’m 10. I’m in the back seat between my brother and sister. Up front mum is driving and whenever we go over a bump the picnic hamper next to her goes squeak-squeak. I’m thinking of the vegemite and cheese rolls, and orange juice and the cream bikkies too.
I’m sitting under a tree next to the car watching the grass move between my fingers and listening to the slap-slap of the runners’ feet as they pass. They’re all running the same way, down the road. And some of them are chatting, and others are just by themselves.
“Here he comes!” my sister yells. I stand up and look down the street, down the line of huffing n puffing. And there he is, race number flapping. “Come on Dad!” He waves, smiling and Mum says, “You’re looking good.” We run back to the car and I help my brother put his seat belt on.
We’re driving and driving and my tummy is rumbling and we’re turning left and right down lots of lots of streets and the houses look good and old like Grandma’s and those people in yellow and orange keep pointing, telling us where to go and Mum is doing what they say. And my tummy is rumbling.
We stop and watch the runners go by because we’re waiting for Dad.
“Where’s Dad? When’s morning tea? Hey, Mum is that guy okay?” There’s a weird man going past and I don’t like looking at him but I’m not stopping. He’s rocking backward and going forward.
“Is he going to die Mum?”
“We’ll have something to eat soon.”
We’re back in the car and driving and stopping and waiting and waving and driving and stopping and waiting. And there’s Dad again but he’s not waving back this time and his legs are all wet and pumping and his singlet is stuck to his chest and I can see his boobies and his glasses are fogged up. “Come on Dad! You’re looking good!”
But I don’t think so. He looks like when he drops a glass in the kitchen and it breaks. There’s white stuff on his head above his eyes like Wizz-Fizz. Why won’t he shut his mouth?
* * *
I’m 19. I’m standing alone at the corner. It’s a grey day and the marshal’s vest I’m wearing is wet from the fine mist falling. I’m not directing runners any more; they know where to go, I reckon they can smell it. They’re going past, tired faces and feet slapping the ground; they don’t look happy. But I don’t care, I’m waiting for Dad.
And here he comes. “Come on Dad! You’re looking good.” But he isn’t. There’s a line of spit from his mouth down to his neck and his head is slightly cocked. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps running.
I join him. I’m not sure if it helps but I’m there, next to him, running. He’s carrying his 42 kilometres of pain and I’m carrying a whole lot of pride and encouragement.
I’m getting hot under my rain jacket but I’m not stopping because I’m not sure what kind of a message that would send. Anyway, it can’t be far now.
We scuttle across tram tracks and past another marshal. The road bends to the right and I wonder if I should be doing this. I take my vest off and scrunch it into my pocket. My tracky-dacks are wet and clinging, heavy to my thighs. But I think about Dad’s legs and I forget about my discomfort.
I can hear his breathing, fast and rasping. I want to help him, say something, anything just to will him towards the finish. Should I speed up or maybe I should slow down or would that stuff up his rhythm?
I see the finish chute and give him one last rev up, “Right oh, away you go Dad. Finish it off.” I’m slowing down, pulling off to the side, watching him. He’s running alone now, towards the banner and the clock, the people and the clapping. There’s a spring in his step.
And he’s away.
* * *
I’m 28. I’m running and there’s people all around me, and their shoulders are against mine, pressing, sliding. Someone clips my heel and I stumble. I’m angry and suddenly I want to cut loose, take this race apart, make them pay. But I’m patient—I use my forearms to make some space—and just relax. It’s a long way to go and now is not the time. Not yet.
My runners are light and soft. My singlet flutters with its race number pinned to the front. My socks are new and my shorts are loose. But it’s irrelevant. It wouldn’t matter what I wore. I’ve trained so hard I’d run alright in gumboots. There is no pain that this course can inflict upon me that I haven’t already inflicted upon myself.
It’s time.
I surge.
I’m clear now; no-one around. The road is flashing past beneath my feet. I’m super smooth, eating it up. The air is moving cold over my wet singlet, I shiver.
Halfway there. I’m still fresh and all alone out in front. The rhythm of my running is sending me away. I flash past a row of parked cars but inside I am still. I hear no slapping just my heart. I am leaving the ground behind
Drink station. I scan the tables for my bottle. Got it! Squeeze, drink, splutter, drink, splutter, breathe, drink, discard. Swallowed more air than fluid and now I’m a bit bloated. Fatigue creeps into the legs. My feet begin slap the ground and suddenly they’re catching me. I shake myself. I’m angry. It’s coming undone, all the hard work, going to waste. No, no – come on! I can’t stop muscling the ground, legs all chunky, suppleness gone.
The others are coming.
But there’s Dad, standing alone at the corner. He calls out and a distant memory cuts through the fog – a small boy running. There is an innocence to this suffering. I forget the runners behind and remember the road ahead. Fear fades.
Blinking through the sweat I see him clapping. I’m concentrating, repeating my mantra, “Strong and relaxed, strong and relaxed.” My legs tighten; so tight they’re almost numb. My breathing comes in gasps. I’m level with him now. “Come on Little Man,” he says gently, “you’re looking good.”
And I’m away.
posted by Grant Morgan @ 11:28 pm
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