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The race is on, and our mystery man goes directly to the front. Part 12.

Chapter 34

66 Chit, maybe four cups of tea are too bloody much,” Warren told himself as

he relieved his bladder behind a tree in Greenwich Park. Having promised himself he would consume no alcoholic beverages during the last 48 hours before the race, he had completely blown it by polishing off one-and-a-half bottles of Pouilly Fuiseé with a Dutch stewardess who had announced her arrival in London via telephone at six o’clock the previous evening. “Fug it,” he grumbled aloud, tucking his fraying, holey, Hussong’s Cantina T-shirt back into his white cotton shorts. “I can still run the thing in 2:35 with a bloody limp.”

In the week before his taper week of 20 miles and three days of no running leading up to the race, he had managed, as he had told the Scotsman, 48 miles. Although somewhat under the suggested minimum 60 miles per week for eight weeks prior to the race, he still felt his mileage would give him sufficient strength to tough it out for the entire distance at 5:54 pace. It’s lucky the “scarfaced weirdo” isn’t running, anyway. Even if his chess opponent were to run he was confident of being able to finish within 20 minutes of his time, but after his night of indulgence he was relieved there was no bet.

A minute later Solian jogged by and he found himself nonsensically commenting over her New Zealand silver fern vest. Oh well, he thought to himself, so she didn’t bother to stop. What do I care about her, anyway.

The Scotsman from the vegetable shop suddenly bounded up. “Are you ready, laddie?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I should be. A bit too much of the old spirits last night, but I can burn it off in the first ten miles,” Warren winked.

“That’s the way. Just take it a wee bit sloower than you reckon you should in the fairst half and you’ll do alright. Just watch yair breathin’. That’s the key to a gude race. If you struggle with yair breathin’ atall in the fairst ten miles, yai’re a goner aftair 20. Let the oothers stream by you airly: you’ll see them all later, stumblin’ like droopin’ swans with broken wings when the race finally begins in the final six miles. Good luck to you then, laddie,” he added before scurrying off.

During the last ten minutes before the start Warren scanned the crowd of runners between the 2:20 and 2:40 suggested-time starting areas, but couldn’t see Solian. He was hoping to hang on her for the first half of the race, then decisively move by her to avenge his loss at Brinjal Bhaji 7. However, as the hour neared, the crowd of bouncing runners around him became tighter and tighter. His stomach began to feel queasy and suddenly he felt enervated.

Runners switched their watches to chronograph mode; adjusted headbands; bounced up and down in place; hiked up their shorts. Each apprehensively awaiting the roar of the cannon. Each wondering about impending performance. Throughbreds bridling at their bits for release: the test of months of preparation had arrived.

Boom!

Until the runners in front of him began moving forward across the wide expanse of green outside the park gate, Warren was forced to jog in place for several seconds. Many marathoners, glad to relieve the pressure of getting underway, were cheering, gamboling, and laughing, but there was no Solian.

Then just before completing the first mile he saw her ahead. She was running just off the shoulder of a red-haired woman he thought he had read was about 45 years of age, but still one of England’s top marathoners. “. . . 5:25….5:26…5:27…” he heard times being called out as he passed the one-mile point. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel too bad; and Solian was merely ten yards ahead of him. Hundreds of runners were streaming on down the narrow road, making him feel a part of a huge lava flow of maple syrup being poured from a bottle.

In the fifth mile Warren was maintaining his position behind the New Zealander when a slight uphill grade began. From the third mile on his breathing had been getting more and more laboured, but then he remembered what the Scotsman had told him. He began to ease up, but noticing Solian and the middle-aged lady continuing on with no change of pace, decided to hang on and use the crowd’s tremendous encouragement for the women to his advantage.

Warren had declined grabbing a drink from the first two aid stations, merely contenting himself with one squeeze of a sponge on his face. The temperature was cool, skies overcast, and he felt he might even elect to run the entire distance without liquid. He would see if he got thirsty or not: always having

~ ae

rae aia) Cm

believed that the advice admonishing runners to drink before they became thirsty was rubbish.

By eight miles his head was clearing of the effects of alcohol, but his Tshirt was drenched in perspiration, his breathing was still laboured, and the first signs of fatigue were creeping in. His legs felt pretty good, but his feet were becoming sore from the pounding, and one sock seemed to be wadding up inside of his left shoe.

“Come on, New Zealand! Keep going!” “Go on, ladies!” “First and second women!” the yells rang out all along the crowd-lined route, the runners inexorably continuing their “lemming-like” progress.

As Warren ran the gauntlet of Tower Bridge where the file became only two or three runners wide, he picked up his pace in response to the cheering hordes. Passing the halfway digital clock on the other side he could feel himself struggling to hold the pace. 1:13:03! No wonder I feel tired! That’s a little over 5:30 pace! Immediately he began to gear back proceeding into the Isle of Dogs segment of the course, telling himself that even though he would undoubtedly fade, he could run 1:21 plus for the second half and still get under 2:35. He just had to hope that Solian, now pulling away from him, would eventually tire and come back.

From 14-16 miles his legs began to tighten. His quads were becoming sore and not only could he feel his stride start to shorten, but also his cadence begin

Andy Yelenak

to slow. Tough it out! Tough it out! he told himself. You’ve got to show those bozos back in San Francisco. You certainly are going to have a mothering time winning the poetry bet, so you might as well come back with some sort of laurels, and a 2:35 in the Greater London Marathon would sound real good. Ten more miles . . . God, that’s a long way!

At 17 1/2 he stumbled to a stop beside an aid table, his trembling hand reaching for a cup of Enduroaid. He felt a huge globe of heat around his drenched shirt, his nipples were chafed, and raising his elbow to down the cup seemed a major effort. His arm and the cup with it dropped like an anchor before Warren staggered out of the aid station. His quads now felt inelastic and the most he could force out of his tired legs was a slow jog; a death march. The liquid in his stomach was making him nauseous. “Keep going, laddie,” the Scotsman suddenly yelled as he sailed by at a brisk pace.

Shortly after 18 miles Warren’s legs felt as if they were about to lock. All of his imprecations could not make them respond. The thought of 774 more miles loomed an insurmountable barrier. Runners were now flowing by him like he was the Hunchback of Notre Dame. His head was dizzy and hanging like that of a man on his way to the gallows. Each lifting of a shoe was becoming more and more painful, and he was developing a limp where his bunched-up sock had caused the now burst blister. So this is what it feels like to hit the wall, he grimaced.

“Come on, mate, keep going!” a girl ina line of three yelled with a cockney accent. The others urged him on, too, but their shouts merely felt like barbed harpoons, he was hurting so much.

Just beyond them, at perhaps the 18 1/2-mile point, he knew it was all over. A break in the crowd at an alley allowed him to slump off the course, and several steps later he ground to a halt next to a rubbish bin under a grafitticovered brick wall.

Warren turned around. There were no more shouts of encouragement. Just looks of pity from one spectator. It was the end of the road for him, and he didn’t even know how to get to the nearest tube stop. All he knew was that he was a dropout from the Greater London Marathon.

Chapter 35

The roars, cheers, shouts, and yells seemed like a constant fusillade of encouragement to Solian. They might have caused her concern over the possibility of improper pacing, but she and Margaret Flanagan, the English running grandmother, had passed the halfway point in 1:13:01, and Solian was feeling quite comfortable. Spot on, in fact. She reckoned she just had to hold it steady for the next

13 and Margaret would drop. At least she didn’t think the 45-year-old woman capable of a 2:26.

Solian grabbed a paper cup of Enduroaid on the fly and pinched the top of it so she could take sips without spilling it. “. . . simply amazing! . . .” she heard blaring from a spectator’s radio as she whizzed by a warehouse like a striding tapdancer. “Hey, why don’t you stop and have a drink with me!” a curmudgeon yelled from in front of a pub. He’s starting early, she thought. The pub’s not even open yet.

“Go, New Zealand!” yelled two girls waving a Kiwi flag. Solian felt a shiver go down her arms and goose pimples arise as she remembered she was wearing the black and silver, and realized two of her countrymen had turned out to support her on their Sunday morning. “Come on, Lede,” a man looking up from the list of competitors upon his program urged. “First-and-se-cond-wom-en!” two schoolgirls shouted in unison, breaking into laughter and frantically flailing their arms overhead.

Solian monitored her condition. Legs: stride long and supple with no pains or soreness. Water: hydration seemed to be O.K. Energy levels: for 14 miles into the race, quite good. But Margaret was still looking smooth as well. She didn’t seem to be tiring at all, and if anything the two of them were running a second or two a mile faster and consistently moving through men who had gone out a little quicker than they should have done to run even splits.

“_.. than the entire history of marathoning . . .” another radio blared as they blitzed by. She was beginning to wonder who was running such an amazing pace up front. It couldn’t be Rob or Alberto: neither was running any marathon in the near future. Maybe Geoff: he surprised people at New York. Maybe Hugh? But soon her concentration was back into keeping her own form smooth and steady.

From out of nowhere Tika appeared at her side! Solian hadn’t even been aware she was entered! The officials must have allowed her to make her decision at the last minute. She’s moving by! What to do. What to do. Solian wasn’t sure whether she should respond to the English girl’s increased pace, or gamble that she would eventually come back to her. She knew Tika had the 10,000-meters speed for a good race, but she hadn’t done particularly well in the previous marathons she had run, most probably because of lacking the long runs and high mileage required for those last six miles. “Don’t let her get away from you, Kiwi!” a voice screamed.

Solian’s mind was vacillating back and forth while Tika moved up on Margaret’s shoulder to the older woman’s consternation. Take it easy, take it easy, the New Zealander told herself. Remain calm. You’re running your own race. If she canrun faster, so be it! She knew to hang with the girl might be suicidal; she might have to pay for it in the final miles. Solian decided to gamble on her predicted time of 2:26 being good enough to win. But the doubts of her wisdom began to creep in as she watched Tika draw away with Margaret on her shoulder. /5 miles. Let them go. If they can handle another 11 miles at that pace, they deserve to beat you.

At the 18-mile point, while still running beside docks and warehouses, Solian was hearing yells that she was 30 seconds back. Her spirits began to sag. That is, until she saw a man waving the New Zealand flag as she ran by. She got goose bumps again and began to pick it up. You’re running for yourself, but you’ re also representing your country. They’ll all be watching on telly. Keep it stead-dee.

At 21 miles she came off the cobblestones in front of the Tower of London and turned into the city: the roar became deafening! Hundreds cheered, waved, and screamed! She could feel the adrenalin surging! She was striding by drooping male competitors like they were running backwards! The crowd loved it!

“Well done, Solian!” “Come on Kee-weee! “Twentee se-conds!” voices erupted from amidst the tumult. She was gaining. Move those quads! Push off with those toes! Show the big three what you can do! Solian hoped Diana and Christa were not far behind.

Suddenly along the Embankment at about 24 miles she glimpsed Margaret ahead. The English woman’s pace had slowed dramatically, and her white singlet was so drenched in perspiration it was nearly transparent. Before Solian even had a chance to consider if she should attempt to increase her pace, she was moving by the slowing woman. The crowd reacted as if at the World Cup final football match! “Come on, Margaret!” “Stay with her, Margaret!” “Good on you, Kiwi!”

Directly ahead in the grey distance, looming like a giant beacon on the horizon, stood Big Ben, the time on its face reading: 11:13. Her brain sluggishly calculated she had 13 minutes to reach the finish, with perhaps 2.1 miles to go. She was definitely very tired, but her form was holding thanks mainly to the enthusiasm being generated by the thousands along the course.

There’s Tika! She was running about 20 meters ahead, well-camouflaged in a group of men. They were just passing a big digital clock at the 25-mile mark, its yellow numbers clicking over the heads of the wildly ecstatic spectators . . . 2:18:02… 2:18:03… 2:18:04 .. . it displayed as Solian swept by. 2:18:03 at 25 miles! You’ve got a chance to win the race and break 2:26! Drive! Drive!

Solian began to push as hard as she could. The crowds were screaming: she was closing! She could feel herself starting to feel dizzy. Hang on!

The gap continued to narrow. Solian thought she saw Tika throw the same sort of darting glance over her shoulder she had done in the cross-country race. Five more yards. Just keep it smooth. She’s got a good kick, so you’ll have to move by her decisively so she can’t respond.

Then, with pandemonium prevailing amongst the people being restrained by sawhorses and bobbies on both sides of the Mall, she reached Tika’s shoulder just as they turned the corner in front of Buckingham Palace. Tika threw a sideward glance at Solian, then began to match her stride for stride.

“Come on Ti-ka!” “Go, Tika, goooo!” “Keep going, Heathgate!” yelled a fellow club member to Solian. “Come on, England!” “Keep it up, la-dies!”

>

This is it! Solian told herself on Birdcage Walk. A little over a half mile to go and you’ve got the strength to do it .. . You have the mileage . . . You have the Waitaks . . . Tika cannot beat you if you reach for all you’ ve got! Go for it! Dig! Dig! She’s more tired than you are… just a half mile more .. . use the crowds! Thousands of New Zealanders will be proud if you win! Lift those knees; push off with those toes; pump those arms! Do it for Chris! He kept you from drinking! You loved him! Do it for him! He’d be so proud!

Tika’s hips and shoulders were drastically swaying. Solian began to inch ahead. She can’t kick—you’ ve got her! Normally impassive British were screaming like there was no tomorrow! Men were clenching their fists and shouting! Women were jumping up and down, yelling as loudly as they could, frantically waving their arms overhead toward the finish! The prides of England and New Zealand were neck and neck, the taller, stronger Kiwi beginning to pull away. “Come on, England!” “Come on!” boomed the baritone voice of a huge red-faced fellow with mutton-chopped sideburns and walrus mustache.

The two women, drenched in sweat, struggled toward Westminster Bridge. Tika shortened her stride and slowly fought back up to Solian’s shoulder! The noise became deafening! Yet Solian could still hear Tika’s gasping—sounding as if chased by the Yorkshire Ripper—while Solian herself sounded like she was about 100 meters below Skyline Drive on the Waiatarua climb! 300 meters, she begged herself. Do it! Sprint like the wind! Dare to break yourself! Do it for Chris! You’ve got her—just listen to her!

Suddenly the large yellow digital clock sat like a lighthouse in a storm right underneath a huge banner: GREATER LONDON MARATHON FINISH. The numbers continued relentlessly to advance . . . 2:23:34… 2:23:35… My God, I can break 2:25 if I can just hang on for another 300 meters!

Across the bridge toward the huge banner the two accelerated like Yifter in the final lap of a World Cup 10,000 meters! Like a wave rolling ahead of them the crowd erupted as eyes picked them out from among the finishing men and loud speakers announced their arrival!

Just when she had created some space between Tika and herself, Solian began to tie up. Just 50 meters! Hurt! She could feel herself about to black out, the English “steam locomotive” pressing up behind her! Then inexplicably the dead face of Christopher Carlson lying on the ground flashed through her mind and shot more adrenalin into her blood. Do it for him! she pleaded with herself.

…10 meters…

…5 meters…

You’ve done it! The banner flew overhead as she crashed into the arms of congratulatory officials! She had spotted the digital just as she had crossed the line: 2:24:49! Her legs wobbled as she gamely freed one arm from an official

to reach back and shake Tika’s hand, but the English girl hung like a limp rag between two race monitors.

“Nice going, Solian!” “Good race, Solian.” “Well done!” came praises from well-wishers along the chute as she used the ropes to steady herself. After having her computer slip torn off her number, she was immediately confronted by Laura and Gwen. The two had run in the Chic cosmetics “City of London 10” the previous day, and were standing near the end of the chute to greet their friends.

“Nice going, Solian,” Laura smiled.

“Yes, very well done, Solian,” Gwen beamed. “We knew you could do it!”

A look of amazement crept across Laura’s face. “Did you hear what happened in the men’s race?”

Chapter 36

The look of horror upon his fellow runner’s face—even though a stranger—had an effect on the runner very much like all the other feelings he had had since his disfigurement: desire for escape. Within seconds he was edging away from the temporarily paralyzed soul, who having been caught staring, did his best to look away. The runner had only managed to squeeze himself up about as far as the 40th row, suggested starting point for those between 2:30 to 2:40, before he had caught someone staring at the bane of his existence. The pack of starters seemed as if a giant mocking tribunal of jackals. God, let me have a normal face again, he thought to himself. What have I done to deserve this humiliation! Yet he knew there was no escape from the constantly surveying glances of his curious fellow men.

Apprehensively he eased himself through the crowd along the edge of the green and began to jog away across the dew-covered grass toward freedom from scrutiny. J can’t do it, he affirmed to himself. / can’t endure the stares and the shocks upon people’s faces for 26 miles, and I don’t want to answer all the questions and give all the explanations!

The cannon boomed. His immediate reaction was to turn and run, but instead he slowed his pace in order to look back over his shoulder at the horde of runners sprinting across the green. Goodbye and good luck.

But as he ran only a few more steps, he began to think about the death of the American runner with such great ambition and so little talent.

Like the Lone Ranger atop Silver, he suddenly reversed his direction. With incredible abruptness he came to a complete halt, stripped off his sweat pants, then took off again and with one fluid motion threw off his grey sweatshirt into the air to reveal the rest of his purple nylon outfit. He was already at 4:30 pace, obliquely paralleling the green full of runners when he glanced down at his chronograph: .. . 00:12 …00:13 … 2’ make that up in the first six miles, he thought to himself.

Like a zephyr moving through a freight yard he danced, dodged, wove, and darted through the masses of slower runners for seven minutes or more until finally beginning to have enough room to “broken-field” run like O.J. Simpson. There are going to be some very surprised folk, he smirked to himself.

The three-mile point was passed in 15:00, the third mile having been run in 4:25, when finally he could see the pack of about 20 runners, mostly British, about 50 yards ahead of him. And another 50 yards in front of them could be seen a top-heavy press truck with photographers hanging off it like possessions off a gypsy wagon.

Perhaps subsconsciously he had known all along he would race, as the last few days he had eased off his training. Nearing the lead pack his legs felt strong and pliant, his breathing seemed smooth and powerful, and he felt as if he was holding back, just how he knew he should feel in the first half of a marathon.

The last of the stream of would-be lead-pack runners had been threaded through, and now the runner could see perplexed looks upon cheering faces as they noticed the strange person with number affixed to his singlet. “Who’s that bloke?” he heard one scruffy fellow with a Manchester United hat on and a Newcastle Brown bottle in his hand yell to his buddy.

No sense in hangin’ around, he told himself, coming abreast of the rear of the pack. The silent and stealthy group of striders were moving smoothly at about a 4:58 pace, but the runner began to move by them like a Healey put into fifth gear on the open road. Anybody care to respond? he mentally asked those members of the elite world-class pack with looks of surprise upon their faces. He knew just what they would be thinking: Just some hot dog running at 4:30 pace to get in front of the camera. Let him go.

The motorized Nikons began to click as he moved up toward the back of the press truck. Whispers began, and furtive glances at programs. Who was this character, they would be wondering? But the runner didn’t give them much opportunity for contemplation, for without so much as a hesitation to take in a few noxious fumes, he moved silently by the camera truck as frantic photographers bumped into each other in attempts to record this either incredibly brash bravado or amazing foolishness. The crowds gave him tremendous ovations as he danced on ahead of the truck like an agile deer. He knew the press truck would let him go, figuring they had better stick with the known runners, refusing to take the bait of this upstart.

19:35 at four miles. Not bad, not bad, he thought to himself with an almost imperceptible nod. The incredible feelings of excitement he was experiencing from whizzing by the mixed reactions of the crowds were far more exhilarating than he could possibly have imagined. The faces and cheers were even closer than those of an indoor track meet. Never had he known such excitement! He just

hoped his plan of 4:35 a mile for the entire 26 wasn’t too optimistic. He wished Rob and Alberto were in the race just to see what it would be like.

At an aid station just before 10 miles he stopped to bolt down a cup of Enduroaid, which he thought tasted like a bad popsicle, and another of water.

“Have you run the entire 10 miles?” someone with a look of consternation asked after glancing at his number.

“That depends on whether you call 4:35 miling running,” he replied, throwing the empty second cup over his shoulder and dashing off to resounding cheers. Soon he spotted a guy with magenta hair featuring bleached-blond rooster spikes, whispering to another guy with black-and-white striped hair and a safety pin through his nose. Cocky bastards, he thought to himself. J wonder which one threw the bottle? But he ignored them, satisfied with the perplexed looks upon their faces, and quickly reestablished his concentration. The crowds began to psych him again. They seemed to be slowly changing from suspicion of an imposter to appreciation for a talented runner.

Another digital was clicking away at the 10-mile mark: 47:05. He was still knocking out the 4:35s like most elite marathoners run 5:00 miles. He had no idea where the press truck was, but figured soon they were going to have to believe in his progress. The crowds sure were beginning to. His shoes were doing a

tapdance on the ancient London streets the world was going to be a long time in forgetting. The runner still wasn’t sure if he could crack two hours, but he knew he could give it a good shot.

All along the increasingly packed route people were buying up programs like they were going out of style. Hawkers were collecting money like the only sure winner of the day was about to run. Everyone wanted to know the identity of the strange runner.

Suddenly he became aware of a radio blasting away behind him and turned to see a young boy on a bicycle. “ . . . word that an unknown runner listed as Christopher Carlson of Los Angeles is running at 4:35-per-mile pace through nine miles. We have no information on this competitor, and at this point the press truck is choosing to ignore . . .” The voice faded out as a bobby ushered the cyclist off the course. A smile crept across the runner’s scarred face. God, this is great. If I can just keep it steady and then pick it up in the second half, I’ll really blow their minds!

With no warning a man dressed in some sort of flag cape dashed out and tackled him! He felt his hip strike the edge of a cobblestone. His first impression was that it must be a dream! He couldn’t believe he had actually been tackled by a spectator. You asshole! The nearby crowd responded by pouncing upon the drunken zealot, and rapidly subdued the frenetic soul screaming in some foreign tongue. Someone started to help the runner, but another yelled: “Don’t touch him, he’ ll be disqualified!”

That brought him back to his senses. He scrambled to his feet and continued his run with a vengeance. Fucking extremists! What do they want with me? I’m just a runner. Fortunately his hip was just grazed and nothing seemed to be injured. The whole incident had perhaps cost him five seconds, but the attack really infuriated him and fueled him onward.

He hit 12 miles in 56:10. J must have run the last mile in 4:25, even with the fall. There could be no more stops for liquid. And no one else is going to stop me! he thought, nearly missing some goosenecking spectators on a bend while sharply leaning around it to a thundering ovation of screams, yells, and applause.

This is like Caesar entering Rome. Just look at them. Through the gauntlet on the Tower Bridge he blitzed at a 4:20 pace. His adrenalin, which he was doing his best to suppress, continued to propel him faster than his plan… . 1:00:43 … 1:00:44… 1:00:45… the giant yellow numerals kept flipping as he jetted by and turned right into the dockland area. J hope you can see how you’re doing, Christopher Carlson! I may not have your face, but my legs ain’t doing badly. That coach that told a friend of mine that a sub-2:07 was impossible! Just like the impossibility of the sub-4:00 mile, huh, coach? Oh, I know you’d say London’s a point-to-point course, but I could do it on an out-and-back. What about eight-liter lungs, fast training, years of running and guts?

Andy Yelenak

The purple-clad runner hit 15 miles in 1:09:49. O.K., gang, it’s time to pick it up. Got to run the second half in 59:16 or better, so I’ll have to hustle!

Then there it was. It sounded like a giant roaring garbage truck: the press truck, video cameras pointing, reporters scribbling, and motorized cameras clicking like pinging bullets. Believe it now? A radio on the truck was obviously picking up a live television broadcast to America. “… haven’t a clue, Frank. You can see he is barrel chested with an incredibly scarred face. No runner I have ever seen looks like him. And nobody seems to know if he’s capable of maintaining this incredible pace or whether he’s being suicidal. Have you ever seen anyone like him?” “No, no [haven’t, Bill. The only two runners I ever knew who looked about like that and were front runners were Gerry—”

“Excuse me, Frank, but we’ve just received word …”

The runner made an effort to suppress his upper lip. Only the minutest trace of a smile crept around the corner of his mouth as he motored on, now running at 4:29 pace. “. . . it’s just amazing, Bill, but not only has this mysterious runner — who, as Bill just told you, is not Christopher Carlson, who apparently died last week, but some other unknown runner who has assumed his number—averaged 4:37 per mile over the first half of the course, but now seems to have picked it up to below 4:30 a mile! It’s just simply unbelievable even to have gone this far at such a pace! If he holds his current pace, he could be close to two hours for the entire 26!”

“Exactly, Frank. He still looks extremely strong and has already broken the world half-marathon record along the way. Unless he blows up completely this has got to be the most incredible performance ever seen in the history of marathoning, and we’re completely in the dark over his identity. Wait a minute. We have just been handed a message indicating he is an American, but from what part no one seems to know. Apparently he is known to some of the runners of north London. Nothing else is known…”

The runner tuned out at that point and it was well he did, for the press truck drew away for the next mile, creating a gap large enough so temporarily he could run fume free. Go for it! This is for Chris, and Solian, and Mr. Armathwaite. And all the thousands of those less fortunate souls who can’t run. Hope you like this run!

After the Beefeaters of the Tower the din became mesmerizing as he hit the cheering throngs along the route through the City of London. Confetti was being thrown from windows, and the press truck settled just in front of him for some tight shots so the runner could again hear the voices of the commentators from a radio. “… word the Queen and the Prince and Princess have interrupted their preparations to watch this amazing odyssey. Bill, I just can’t believe it! I don’t even think it’s going to take him two hours .. .” You’ve got that right.“ … he may do a sub-two! I know to all the millions of runners watching this it seems impossible, but you are seeing just what we are. An incredibly scarred human being with awesome talent and guts running the race of his life! Nothing seems to stop him! I haven’t even seen him stop for a drink, have you, Bill?”

“Nope. I’ve got a report that he did stop once near the 10-mile point, before we had our cameras on him and that he was actually tackled by some sort of political fanatic, but it doesn’t seem to have affected his progress. He just keeps churning along at 4:25 or 4:26-per-mile like he’s out for a Sunday stroll. And the gleaming purple singlet remains a mystery as well…” The runner smiled inwardly. “. . . has telephoned to invite this incredible athlete to Buckingham Palace immediately after the race, no matter what the outcome, he is so impressed. The rest of the lead runners are over eight minutes behind .. .”

Tears were welling up in his one good eye, but with a brief brush of his wrist he dashed them from sight. “Who are you?” someone aboard the press truck yelled. The runner ignored the voice and concentrated on his form. Keep those knees up. You’re not very tired yet. You can run sub-4:30s all day. Just three more miles. I ain’t heavy, father: I’m my own brother. Steady.

The Embankment was jammed to the gunwhales with cheering enthusiasts. Portable radios everywhere were squawking the news as more and more people tuned in to excited announcers attempting to find out more about this strangelooking runner. Big Ben in the distance . . . but I take a right here and then hit it again in one point seven miles … Big Ben says 10:52… Yah, that’s about right for 24 1/2 miles …Maybe I should have stopped for another drink, though .. .

feel a little dizzy .. . legs are hurting … keep going .. . don’t let yourself down .Rob… Alberto… Lasse… Lady Di… the whole world is watching . . .

As he rounded the corner at Buckingham Palace a siren went off and the crowd went bonkers! /t’s like running down the tunnel leading out of the Super Bowl!“ … brilliant run! We have word that a good part of London has dropped what they are doing in order to see the outcome of this phenomenal world-record shattering athletic performance. Every conceivable type of individual has been calling to offer dinner engagements, money, athletic equipment, women’s phone numbers, and stacks of other offers, or so we’ve had reports from our English counterparts using the same picture. We’ve even had plastic surgeons calling to offer free help! This amazingly talented, disfigured runner has captured the hearts of the world, and telegrams of congratulations are already pouring in from all over the . . .” Solian, I told you it would come down to my appearance. If only you were with me now…

Suddenly the runner found himself, without knowing whether intentionally or accidentally, being allowed to pass the press truck and break into the clear. He did so with a speed dazzling the awestruck crowd.

Amidst tremendous tumult and shouting he approached Big Ben and the Westminster Bridge, picking it up to close to 4:20 per mile. A surge of adrenalin he had never experienced before suffused him with an unaccountable energy for the final 350 yards. Keep those knees up! Ahead he could see the big yellow digits ticking away: … 1:59:26… 1:59:27…

Thirty-three seconds to hit that banner! The crescendo became enormous, lifting him into an all-out sprint across the bridge. /00 yards! Millions watching … world’s record … under two hours if you hold it… Use your last ounce… There, you’re across .. . Victory… 1:59:57! Surprise!

But don’t stop now… they’ ll ask all those questions . .. Keep going … Shake off those helping hands .. . That’s it .. . You’ve broken free . . . Stretch it out. . . You can cross back over the Thames farther on up and make Regent’s Park before anyone knows what’s happened . . .

This concludes The Purple Runner. We will start our next book bonus—Going Far by Joe Henderson—in our September/October issue.

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