A short story.

slow runners, back of the pack, he is there: tall, heavy, cumbersome, laxly dressed in a torn singlet, shady running shorts, and worn-out sneakers, surveying all around him, greeting old acquaintances, and chuckling at camaraderie from his fellows. By his side, just behind him, I am tense. It’s not the distance, 13 miles on a hilly, rolling course, but my two goals: breaking two hours and defeating David Bornstein. We are well into our mid-60s; he is two years older. Fitness levels alike, we are in the two-hour range for the half-marathon, roughly nine-minutes-per-mile guys. What miles per hour are to drivers, minutes per mile are to long-distance

/ t the starting line: not exactly on the line, slightly behind it. Among the

runners.

David is a seasoned runner. I am a novice, a latecomer. He runs as though he doesn’t much care about the results. I care a lot, which gives me an edge. Being more determined, resolute, I have come to this half-marathon to conquer—not the race, obviously, but my personal ghosts, both real and imaginary. And no matter what, to defeat David Bornstein.

The starting gun fires, and the mass of runners moves forward. We are shuffling, walking, switching gradually to jogging, aligning our gait and posture, settling at the back of the pack, and rolling into our nine-minutes-per-mile pace. My heart rate is slow and my running light. The training phase is behind us, as schooling was when David and I approached adulthood, heading into our first three milestones: work, marriage, and children.

David is ahead. Deeply engrossed within himself, he doesn’t notice a soul— estranged, like the widower he is. We are now three miles into the race. A triple bypass planted in my chest envelops my left descending artery. My heart, which underwent the surgery a year ago, is now pumping 118 beats per minute, a low heart rate, fat-burning zone. We are now running beside each other but not making eye contact. He is not really the competitive type, being more of a participant, though earnest and committed. Performance for him is secondary to engagement.

David runs out of passion, health concerns, or habit, not ambition. In any case, from a beginning to an end, not from the end to the beginning.

Four miles and 36 minutes into the race, David grins at me, looking relaxed, opening up a little. Exchanging banalities with the runners around him, engaging in casual chitchat, sharing the group’s exuberance but keeping his distance and aloofness. I, on the other hand, am focused, not prepared yet to risk elation. This can be earned only by conquest, by crossing the finish line. I love crossing finish lines.

In business, too. The spiraling road of building up my business to the top line in gross revenue has been long and strenuous. Such has also been the gravitating road of expenses accumulated. Yet the tipping point has always remained the bottom line: profit or loss, my graduation diplomas, and the international brands decorating my business card. In academe, business, and sports: living on the adrenalin of peaks, favoring high to low, green to yellow, north over south. Mountaineering has been a dream that never came true. Its younger brother is the long run, the half- and full marathon.

At mile five, we are deep into the race, running at an even, serene pace of 125 beats per minute, a master’s run, a decorous balance between speed and endurance. Melting into the environment, we are at home in the world, fully in charge of our “ins” and “outs,” savoring both.

At mile six, the course bends toward an elongated downhill route. I expand my stride, accelerate my pace, gliding forward, possessing the downhill contour, devouring its silhouette, capitulating to its feminine curves and seductive turns. David persists on a sturdy pace, neither darting forward nor loitering behind. He is measured and assiduous, biding his time.

The notorious hill looms ahead—a long mile of steep ascent forcing you down to your knees. Here you set out on two as a runner, ending up on four as a climber. I take a deep breath, snatch a glass of water from a volunteer on the sideline, cut my stride in half, and pray. Striving not to raise my eyes and acknowledge the soaring monster, I concentrate on a tactical run: one step at a time. My heart beats frantically, my breathing squeaks fortissimo, and air is suddenly becoming a product that must be paid for, every step inflating the price.

Crisis time. The struggle bends me forward. Better to bend than break. Bending is an antidote to breaking, so I bend and persevere. David, behind me, catches up, running by my side. Breathing heavily and basking in sweat, he eyeballs me with a burning, strange look. And then it happens. No one could have foreseen it. Halfway up the hill, crossing mile seven, I suddenly spot cracks and ruptures in our skins. Deep surgical cuts slice and dissect our legs, arms, hands, shoulders, and backs—longitudinal stitches unzipping noisily. Our skins become scabbed, split, severed from the flesh. Waves upon waves of skin are being peeled off, stripped of our bodies, silently carpeting the road behind us.

I stare at David, petrified. His young face is glowing, flawless, radiating adolescent vitality. His curly hair is brown and long, his shoulders, arms, and legs smooth and snow white. I touch my face, hot and wrinkle free too. My legs, hands, and shoulders are tanned, shiny, and young. David points at my hair: “Raven black,” he whispers.

Runners around us detect nothing. Huffing and puffing, negotiating the slope, everyone is dipping into themselves. When they briefly eye us, they see two young runners dragging their feet, scrambling to stay erect. David and I are plodding uphill; the running doesn’t get any lighter. Our old skin has vanished, succeeded by a new one, young and insolent, but the body underneath remains oddly old. We are two feebly fit youngsters, barely lifting ourselves forward, object of scorn and ridicule by fellow runners. “What’s the point, wise guy,” I snort at David, “26 or 62?”

“26 outside, 62 inside,” he rejoices.

“Are you mad?” I hiss. “Running, anti-aging is all about going back inside, not outside. You confused cosmetics with fitness, creames with low cholesterol.”

On top of the hill, we are more than halfway through, rapidly recovering, and flat terrain is ahead of us. We are pushing forward toward a new beginning. The middle ages have—eureka!—given way to a renaissance; the outside is radiating inside. Our running pace shoots up to eight minutes per mile. My heart rate is high but stable: 130 beats per minute.

Soothing, energizing warmth spreads inside me, penetrating every muscle, bone, and tissue: anti-aging, par excellence. We are, finally, young inside out.

Passing scores of runners, we advance to the front. Seven minutes per mile! Ahead, just the elite runners. I smile at David and he nods: “Told you. No lotions, no lubricants; fitness-netto.”

Pressing forward, we cruise through the next two miles. My divorce and the separation from my family are fading away. So does mile 10. David, too, I know, is slowly rising from the ashes of widowhood, rejoining life. We are euphoric; three miles to go.

The approaching finish line and the excitement of crossing it inflate us with new energy and stamina. I achieve a major breakthrough in my business, custom building a modest chain of consumer goods, starting new relationships.

David is back on his professional feet; he gets more business, enlarges his office, hires additional staff.

My children are no longer hostile to me, and I even detect a quiet rapprochement, though not yet an entente.

David’s children, I understand, cling to him; his fragmented family is holding together. It seems that we have managed to assemble the broken pieces. The future is no longer behind us.

At mile 11, David groans, inhaling deep, exhaling flat. His juvenile face suddenly becomes crisscrossed, his snow-white smooth skin is yellowing. His sleek brown hair is gone; his perspiring bald head is shining in the sun. His frail body is leaning forward, just too much. Deep in agony, David suffers silently.

I, too, am not in good shape. Crystal-clear creases, like a spider’s web, are spreading all over my hands and legs. Blue veins multiply everywhere. My breathing, too, is coarse, screechy, and air again becomes a scarce commodity.

Come mile 12, I reach to David, touching his elbow, gently slapping his back. “You’ve got what it takes.” Iam forcing a smile, and he nods, thanking me silently. Our pace deteriorates rapidly. Our legs tremble, muscles strained to their limits, and runners pass us en masse. Withdrawing back fast, we are paving the way to natural truth. Exhaustion takes over exponentially, inside out or the other way around—no longer matters. We are way back, at the far rear.

I glance at David, spotting an old, broken man. He collapses into himself. Fifty yards to the finish, my older brother desperately clings to me, hugging and kissing me savagely, drops to the ground, taking his last breath. My body, alone, crosses the finish line. The loudspeaker announces: “Jonathan Bornstein, one hour, 54 minutes, 18 seconds.” Me