Just One of the Guys(33)
Just the words I’ve been dying to hear. There’s something about a race that brings out the competitor in me. “You sure?” I ask.
“Go!”
That’s all it takes. I’m off, my long legs eating up the street. There are times when being built like an Amazon teamster is a plus, and this is one of them. I already rowed this morning, but running uses a different set of muscles, and I love to run. Granted, I won’t win, since I started off with the slowpokes, but I’ll catch quite a few, no doubt. Sure enough, I see a few T-shirts that began with us in less than half a mile.
My breathing is even and smooth, my stride long and fast. Ten miles is not the longest course I’ve ever run; I finished the New York City Marathon twice, Boston once. Still, it will take some gumption. “Looking good, O’Neill!” I turn my head and catch a glimpse of Bev Ludevoorsk, my EMT instructor, and I wave and smile. “Nice job in class last week!”
Last week was patient lifting, and as Bev predicted, I’m a natural.
I cross the bridge at the three-mile mark. Lots of people have stopped here to catch their breath and admire the view, but I cruise past, into the shopping district of Jurgenskill. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn is rich in the air, and people cheer and wave and offer us sprays with hoses. The area becomes residential and hillier. People are sitting in lawn chairs, playing inspiring songs on the radio. I catch a few bars of “Chariots of Fire” and grin. There’s even a band at one driveway. Of course, they’re playing “Born to Run.”
At the bottom of a rather long, gradual hill, I hear a wonderful sound.
“Go, Auntie, go! Go, Auntie, go!”
The clan! They’re camped out about halfway up the hill on the lawn of Sarah’s parents’ house—and all my nieces and nephews are jumping up and down, screaming for me. “Go, Auntie, go! You can do it! Go, Auntie, go!”
Just for them, the sweet little bunnies, I step on the gas, flying up the hill, past the laboring runners, past those who’ve been reduced to trudging. The kids go nuts. Jack rings a cowbell, Mom calls out encouragement, Lucky flips burgers on a gas grill.
“Teeeaam…O’Neill!” I yell, sticking my hand out for high fives as I race past. The kids’ faces are shining and proud, and I feel such a rush of love for them, cheering me on like this, that a lump comes to my throat.
“Looking good, hottie!” Elaina calls, holding Dylan.
“Chastity, you’re ninety-four seconds behind the fire department!” Sarah calls, glancing at her watch. “Go get ’em, girl!” She raises a drink—looks like a Bloody Mary—and toasts me.
“You got it!” I call back. The fire department. I can definitely catch a bunch of muscle-bound men.
It’s pure joy to run today. The people lining the streets become a blur. I’m almost sprinting—I’ll have to curb my pace later—but I’m already at the five-mile mark and barely feeling it. The breeze is strong and dry and feels like heaven against my damp forehead. My feet pound out a hard rhythm on the street, my breath keeping time. And then I see them, the dark blue shirts of the Eaton Falls Fire Department, running in a pack, five across, like it’s a parade. My dad, Matt, Mark, Santo and Trevor. Another brief sprint and I’m next to them.
“Oh, hello, boys,” I pant. “I thought that cluster of heterosexuality was you.”
They laugh. “Keep us company, Chas,” Trevor says.
“You’re too slow for me,” I answer. “Did you hear that, Mark? I’m going to kick your ass.”
Mark shoots me a calculating look and takes the bait. “You think you have a chance in hell?” he asks. “That’s fine with me.” He lengthens his stride. “See you, guys.”
“Good luck, Porkchop,” Dad says.
For the next mile, Mark and I stay neck and neck, each of us testing the other. It’s been a while since we ran together, and the competition fuels us both, just like when we were kids. Mark was always the one who took winning most seriously—Jack would let me win, Lucky would run at my side, Matt didn’t like competing, but Mark made it his life mission to be the victor. And I always had a lot to prove—that I was as good as the boys. That I could do what they did. That they didn’t need to look out for me, because I was fine on my own. Better than fine, really. Superior.
“Care to place a little money on this?” I ask my brother, who, damn him, is showing no signs of fatigue.
“What were you thinking?” he asks.
“Finish my upstairs bathroom?” I suggest, trying not to pant.
“Nah,” he says. “A hundred bucks.”
“Done,” I say instantly.
We’re at the seven-mile mark, and the crowds seem to know we need them at this point. Three miles to go, most of it uphill, until we get to the bridge. We round a curve and come to the next challenge.
It’s a hill so steep it’s like climbing a stepladder, and my calves start protesting immediately. There’s a grinding sensation in one knee that wasn’t there the last time I ran in a race. But I can’t slow down, so I dig into the hill with everything I’ve got, keeping pace next to my brother.
“This is where I get off,” Mark says, and just like that, he’s sprinting up the hill. I try to keep up, but he charges up that thing like it’s the Battle of the Bulge. He’s five paces ahead, eight…ten. My step slows. My shins are killing me, my calves sore. The grinding is more pronounced.