Happiness Is a Long Run

A short story.

swung over his eyebrows. Pete’s 6-foot-3 frame was the only traffic on

the road that night. His friend, Leo, had offered to give him a ride, but

the five-mile journey from the race site to his house was a good way to let go of steam. Instead, the steam built up.

On the way home Pete decided that he was done with losing; he vowed that

he would train and win. By the time he reached his trailer house, he could not

stop thinking about his unstoppable purpose to win. His brother had never lost a

| | e cruised. He ran on the wet asphalt. His hair, the color of the asphalt,

race, and he ran for his brother.

Five years ago, when Pete was 18, he gave up on the formal training that called for timed miles, intervals, and tempo work. He preferred his own structure of running, a system that didn’t require detailed training logs and schematics. Pete ran at three levels—fly, float, and cruise. Never walk. Flying was an all-out racing speed, floating was a comfortable pace, and cruising happened when he forced himself to slow down.

Pete’s peeling trailer was tucked between three maple trees; either it had been strategically shifted in there or had been there for so long the trees had grown around it. Moss clung to the aluminum siding, and half the windows were boarded over. Pete’s paychecks from his part-time job at the grocery store barely covered his necessities, but he had been putting a little money away for the last six months to buy new windows. He was buying the windows to calm his parents. They could not figure out how he had so much time to run yet no time to work to pay for things like windows and cars.

Pete pulled a tarpaulin off a wood pile and then piled oak chunks high in one arm. October was early to start burning wood, but the cold appeared when it wanted to in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

Pete got the fire started in the woodstove and then sat down at the table with a stout and a notepad labeled, “Run.” It was a Luddite-style logbook; the black

cover had worn to crinkled gray. One column heading was the date; the other was the time of the run. Pete stared at September’s training and scribbled, average running hours per week—17.

The next night the usual crowd formed at the base of the mountain with Pete. There was Leo, who sat on the tailgate of the truck and rubbed his freshly shaved skull. And Chin, who sat on a boulder and drank a homemade concoction of espresso and Red Bull. Then Dylan, who talked at full speed about last night’s race.

“Pete, I can’t believe you gave that race away. I thought you had it in the bag,” Dylan spurted.

“Yep, I lost it. You guys ready to run?” Pete said.

Chin downed his espresso and Red Bull and then threw the empty Nalgene bottle in the bed of the threadbare Toyota pickup.

Chin jumped up and said, “Last one to the top buys the beer.”

He started to run before the sentence was finished.

“Sounds good to me,” Leo said and kicked off.

Pete bent down to tie his shoes, ““We’ll catch them.”

The run started on a wide-open gravel road strewn with softball-sized stones. The road cut through a field that breezed with the night air. The road was soon washed out and turned into single track that snaked through a forest of maple trees. The leaves had turned fluorescent red and yellow and had begun to litter the trail.

Leo and Chin had a lead of 100 yards. They needed it, because the real race would be between Pete and Dylan, the two speedsters.

“How long should we let them hold the lead?” Dylan asked.

“Let’s give them the first two miles, and then we’ll start pushing it,” Pete answered.

The moon disappeared as they entered the single track canopied by the maple tops. By this time their eyes had adjusted to the obscurity. The only sound was their footfalls and heavy breathing. They were in a rhythm and wasted no oxygen with chitchatting.

Dylan pushed the light on his watch. “Two miles,” he said.

Pete’s and Dylan’s pace instantly quickened. They were running for fun, but winning still mattered.

The talus was just ahead, paused on the side of the mountain. This jagged section made the last half mile of the race cumbersome, but it was easier for passing than the single track.

Pete hated losing, especially to Dylan and his mouthy attitude, and this is why he clenched his teeth and struggled for air. He knew he was faster and a better runner, but after last night’s race his muscles felt shredded. They sprinted the last 50 yards, and Dylan slowly pulled away and won.

At the top, Leo hunched over with his hands on his knees and coughed out, “Looks like I’m buying the beer.”

“That’s right,” Chin said, and then barreled down the talus.

At the bottom they loaded into Leo’s Toyota and then drove to his house.

Leo brought out four India Pale Ales.

“Up the hill, down the ale,” Leo said.

Pete nodded in agreement and said, “That’s right, down the ale, because starting Monday I’m beer-free.”

“Serious,” Chin said as he rolled the cold bottle up and down his thigh.

“Wow, you didn’t take losing that race too well,” Dylan said.

Pete’s tanned face turned a hue of red. “I know I can run faster.”

“We can all run faster,” Dylan said as he tilted his bottle back.

“T don’t get it, why no beer?” asked Leo.

“T’m going to ask Coach to help me with some training.”

“You’re kidding me,” Chin said.

“What’s wrong with a little coaching?” Pete asked.

“Truthfully, dude, if you couldn’t take it in school, how are you going to take it now?” Leo asked.

“T’ve grown up.”

ES Eo * Sylvia blew on a mug of Earl Grey tea, “That was a surprise to hear from you this morning.”

“It’s been a while,” Pete replied.

Pete noticed that Sylvia still looked fit, and he guessed she hadn’t gained even a pound in five years; her face was freckled and hawk thin beneath her free-for-all of orange tangled hair.

“Still running, right?” she asked.

A voice belted out, “Cappuccino.”

Pete started to get up for the cappuccino and said, ““There’s no other option, I’ve got to run.”

“You’re right, there’s no other option,” Sylvia said.

“A work of art,” Pete tilted his cup back and forth. “How about you, still doing triathlons?”

“Training and tri-ing. I did the Madison Ironman this year. It was tough,” she said. “What kind of mileage have you been running?”

“T don’t know, 100 to 120 miles a week, I’m guessing,” Pete twisted the threads that hung from his cutoff corduroys.

“Sounds like you’re still keeping track by hours,” Sylvia said.

“You know, Coach, for me running isn’t about the numbers.”

Sylvia smirked, “I do remember you caring about being number one.”

“T do like to win, and actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Pete sipped at the dry foam of his cappuccino. “I wouldn’t mind getting some advice.”

“You’re not serious; you don’t take advice,” Sylvia grinned.

“I need to get faster,” Pete said.

“Why do you need to get faster? You don’t race,” Sylvia said.

“After I dropped from the team, I found a trail-racing circuit. It’s pretty elite stuff,” Pete said.

“T’ve never heard about any trail-racing circuits around here, and definitely nothing elite,” Sylvia shifted to the edge of her seat.

“TI tell you more about it later. Would you be willing to coach me again?”

“What are you looking for? These races, how long are they?” Sylvia asked.

Pete took off his black-rimmed Woody Allen glasses and rubbed his eyes, “I’m looking for speed; the races range from 5K to 20K. Honestly, Coach, I can’t tell you much about them.”

“You’re joking, right? What is this, some kind of secret society?” Sylvia leaned back on her chair and stared out the window.

“In a way,” Pete said. “Let’s just talk about training for now.”

“OK; first, this isn’t going to be like the last time I coached you. I’m not going to argue about how we train. Are you willing to give me full control of your workouts?” Sylvia asked.

“What does that mean?”

“The same thing it meant five years ago,” Sylvia said.

“I’m guessing I have no choice.”

“You’re right. If I’m coaching you, it’s just that. ’m your coach, and you follow the program. Are we good on that?” Sylvia asked.

Pete agreed, “Sure, but I own Wednesdays. That’s race day, and I need to stick with the racing.”

“Nope. Sorry, Pete, but racing is out. And another thing, no alcohol,” Sylvia said.

Pete had figured on the strict rules.

“Tt’s a deal. When do we start?” Pete asked.

“How about on Monday?” she said. “Six A.M. Meet us at the reforestation trail.”

Eo * * The next morning, Pete went to the Flume Mountain trails. After he had run for an hour, the sun finally broke through the scrim of morning fog. Robins frantically raced to let out the first birdsongs. Clouds of Pete’s breath hung in the air behind him.

His goal was to get in a three-hour gallivant since his long runs would be the first to go during his training with Sylvia. She was never one for long runs. “Nothing over two hours builds you, it just breaks you,” she said. This was one of the reasons why Pete left the team; at two hours he was only getting started.

The trail was covered with yellow leaves and the sweet scent of decomposition was in the brittle air. This was Pete’s favorite time of year to run and also the time of year he needed to run the most. After his twin brother’s accident, all Pete could do was run. He couldn’t focus on his schoolwork, friends, or anything else. But he could focus on the act of running the trails until his body succumbed to the tranquility that comes after miles of focused running. It took miles and hours for him to forget that his twin brother was dead and he was still alive.

During the last 45 minutes, Pete picked up the pace, undulating with the terrain, flying down the hills and riding the banked corners.

Starting Monday, Pete would be at Sylvia’s disposal: this meant no beer, no long runs, no sleeping in or Midnight Mountain races.

Pete looked at his one piece of technology: 2:45. He sped up.

Eo * * The frost crunched beneath the feet of the whisper-thin teens as they danced around the trailhead, trying to warm up. They shook their arms, hands, and feet while going through a variety of stretches.

Coach sat in a running Volkswagen Golf, drinking coffee and reading a book.

There was no talking between the dancing runners, only the exchange of puffs of breath in the cold air. Pete had read the temperature on the local bank on his way to the trail: 38 degrees.

Pete joined the crowd with a nod and began going through the same warm-up rituals. He stood out in the group. They wore thin gloves, head bands, arm warmers, and compression socks. Pete kept it simple with shorts, shirt, and a beanie.

The door of the Volkswagen squealed and Sylvia methodically got out, put her coffee mug on the hood, and then twisted off the Thermos lid. Steam twisted through the air from the Thermos. All eyes stared at Sylvia.

With her back to the team she said, “How senseless to dread whatever lies before us.” She turned around and looked from face to face, ending on Pete’s. “Those are the words of Billy Collins, from the poem ‘November.’ I want the first loop in 12 minutes flat. And this is Pete; respect him because he can kick harder than you can even imagine. Have fun.”

The boys entered the woods like an elegant entourage.

Pete hung at the back of the pack. He didn’t know how long the loop was, but he guessed they were running at about a six-minute-per-mile pace, and that meant the loop was about two miles long.

He focused on the legs in front of him, chiseled and tan, clipping forward mechanically. The leg turnover was slower than he was used to, but he knew the laps would get progressively quicker.

Nobody talked. An oriole whistled in the hollow forest, and squirrels raucously flew from branch to branch, chirping about. The sky turned from gray to ribbons of pink that danced above the treetops.

They approached the parking lot where Sylvia was camped out, a book in one hand, the coffee mug in the other. The group still had 50 yards to go. They sped up.

Sylvia said, “11:40:35. That’s a little quick, guys, but close enough.”

The runners went straight to their energy drinks and waters.

Sylvia said to the group, “This time, go for 11 minutes.”

The zealous group threw bottles, banana peels, and energy-bar wrappers next to their piles of clothes, and then went out at a five-and-a-half-minute-per-mile pace. It felt good for Pete to go that half minute per mile faster. Again, he ran in the back of the pack. His brother used to run in the back of the pack, eyeing up the competition and waiting until speed mattered.

This time the group returned to the lot with only five seconds to spare.

“Good work,” Sylvia cheered.

The group was breathing heavier and took longer to fetch their bottles. Some sat down.

“No dallying; one more loop and then you can take a break. Race pace, go.”

Pete was the first to break through the woods. The rest of the group jostled for position. There is something about race pace that revs up any runner. It is the purpose of the training, and even when it is not an actual race, it still provokes a deep spirit of competition.

Pete ran into the parking lot over a minute before the next runner.

“Two more laps, easy recovery pace,” Sylvia said.

After the recovery laps, Sylvia gave the boys a pep talk and reminded them about a cross-country race next weekend. The boys grabbed backpacks, sweatshirts, and water bottles and then rushed off.

Pete sat on a boulder. He ate a banana in between sips from a hemp-protein shake.

“That went well,” Sylvia said and handed a printout to Pete.

“Here’s the plan,” she said. “Of course, the paces will be adjusted according to your speed.”

“Right,” Pete agreed. “I see there’s nothing over 16 miles. I think some longer runs would be helpful.”

“Who’s the coach?” Sylvia asked.

“T’m just saying…”

“When are you going to give me the scoop on this racing circuit?” she asked.

Pete knew that he could keep it from her for only so long. He twirled a brilliantyellow leaf between two fingers.

“Really, Coach, it’s quite simple. It’s an invitation-only trail-running circuit,” he said.

“So what’s the deal with the secretiveness?”

“You know how people get. For example, look at Boston. It has turned into a full-blown bureaucratic nightmare. People would be suing because of equal rights and trying to pay their way in. Plus, most of the runs would need permits, and they are trying to keep this simple.”

Sylvia took a sip of coffee. “How elite is it?”

“When you read the running magazines and see who is winning the races, these are the guys in the circuit. There are even a lot of road runners, ones you would have no idea run trail. The circuit hosts the fastest guys around.”

“So how close have you been to winning?” she asked.

“I’m a constant second- and third-place finisher,” Pete said.

“TI get you to first, if you stick with the program.”

“When will I be at my peak?” Pete asked.

“Take a look at the plan. I have you peaking in seven months.”

ES Eo * The next seven months were monopolized by Coach’s workouts. Most of the runs were less than an hour and a half. He reflected more about his brother, blaming himself for not being with him the night of the accident. That night his brother had gotten into the wrong car, with the wrong person—a friend who had been drinking.

At the end of the training period, Pete started racing but could not win a race.

“T just can’t find the kick in the last half mile, and that’s when I need it the most,” Pete told Leo.

“Dude, it’s true. Coach needs to get you doing more race pace at the end of your workouts,” Leo said.

“She’s been having me do that. I think I’m doing every workout in the book.”

“Your times have gotten faster, but so have everyone else’s.” Leo worked at peeling the label from his beer bottle.

“T think I need more long runs. More endurance. You know, I haven’t run over two hours in seven months?” Pete said.

“T don’t get her big gripe against long runs,” Leo said.

“T don’t either, or against beer. I think it’s about hiatus time,” Pete said.

Leo slammed his bottle down in agreement. “How do we celebrate this newfound freedom?”

“Run,” Pete said.

“The boys are going down south this weekend to do the Stone Hill 50-mile ultra. I’m pacing Chin. You should come along and pace,” Leo suggested.

Pete nodded in agreement, “Maybe instead, I’ll run it.”

Eo * * Pete rode on a cloud the first 32 miles. At the 33-mile mark, his cloud dissipated; he left the aid station with less bounce in his step and a jolting ache in his calf. He had been sharing the lead with Argyle Jameson; since mile five they had been tethered together.

Pete didn’t have a crew, so he would enter the aid stations, grab two or three energy gels, fill up his bottle, and leave smiling.

The course was dominated by hills and valleys—when he wasn’t going up, he was going down. His emotions followed the same course. He had miles of elation and then miles of wondering why he was even doing this race at all. He was ready to stop playing leapfrog with Argyle and pull into the lead and win this race.

At the mile 42 aid station, Argyle didn’t even stop to fill his water bottle; he ran right through. Pete had already started to fill his bottle and was chewing on a handful of M&Ms. After Argyle ran past him, Pete fumbled with his water bottle and choked down the M&Ms as he rushed out of the aid station.

By the time Pete left the station, Argyle had earned himself a 30-second lead. Pete had eight miles to try to catch him.

The dull ache in Pete’s left calf muscle had started to stab jolts straight to his brain with every few steps. He also noticed that his right big toe hurt every time he pushed off.

He lost sight of Argyle. The jungle-like trail didn’t allow much visibility. He tried to pick up his pace, but he had no way of knowing if he was gaining or losing him.

The volunteers at the mile-47 aid station cheered raucously as Pete entered. There was no way that Pete was stopping.

“He’s ahead of you by a minute,” an aid-station attendant barked.

Others affirmed the comment, “He came through a minute ago.”

Pete tossed his water bottle on a table and sprinted out of the station, leaving behind cheers and clapping. His whole left leg was numb with pain.

The next two miles passed with a blur of spring green. He buzzed through the thick undergrowth like a bee. Water brushed onto him like pollen from the drizzle-laden plants. He crested a long climb and saw the muddy back of Argyle 50 yards in front of him. Pete kept his sprint pace and caught him. From behind, Argyle reminded him of Dylan, and this helped Pete want to beat him even