On the far side, one of the bike-shorts dudes was sitting on the guardrail, gasping for breath and massaging a cramp in his calf. He didn’t look up as Scott and the other runners passed. At the junction of Routes 117 and 119, runners were clustered around a refreshment table, gulping water, Gatorade, and cranberry juice from paper cups before going on. Eight or nine others, who had blown themselves out on the first six kilometers, were sprawled on the grass. He was delighted to see Trevor Yount—the bullnecked Public Works guy with whom Scott had had the confrontation in Patsy’s—was among them.
He passed the sign reading CASTLE ROCK MUNICIPAL TOWN LIMITS, where Route 119 became Bannerman Road, named after the town’s longest serving sheriff, an unlucky fellow who had come to a bad end on one of the town’s back roads. It was time to pick up the pace, and as Scott passed the orange 8K marker, he shifted from first gear to second. No problem. The air was cool and delicious on his blood-warmed skin, like being rubbed with silk, and he liked the feel of his own heart—that sturdy little engine—in his chest. There were houses on both sides of the road now, and people standing out on lawns, holding up signs and taking pictures.
Here was Milly Jacobs, still going but starting to slow down, her headband darkened to a deeper green with her sweat.
“How’s that following wind, Milly? Picking any up?”
She turned to look at him, frankly incredulous. “Good God, I can’t… believe it’s you,” she panted. “Thought I left you… in the dust.”
“I found a little extra,” Scott said. “Don’t quit now, Milly, this is the good part.” Then she was behind him.
The road began to rise in a series of low but ascending hills, and Scott began to pass more runners—both those who had given up and those who were still laboring along. Two of the latter were the teenagers who had blown by him earlier, offended to be passed, even for a few moments, by a middle-aged fatty in shitty sneakers and old tennis shorts. They glanced at him with identical expressions of surprise. Smiling pleasantly, Scott said, “Seeya, wouldn’t want to be ya.”
One of them gave him the finger. Scott blew him a kiss, then showed them the heels of his shitty sneakers.
As Scott entered the ninth kilometer, a long peal of thunder rolled across the sky, west to east.
That’s not good, he thought. November thunder might be okay in Louisiana, but not in Maine.
He came around a bend, jinking left to come even with a skinny old stork of a man who was running with his fists clenched before him and his head thrown back. His wifebeater shirt showed fishbelly white arms decorated with old tattoos. On his face he wore a daffy grin. “You hear that thunder?”
“Yes!”
“Gonna rain a bitch! Ain’t this a day?”
“You bet your ass,” Scott said, laughing. “Finest kind!” Then he was past, but not before the skinny old guy gave him a pretty good swat on the ass.
The road ran straight now, and Scott spotted the red shirt and blue shorts halfway up Hunter’s Hill, aka Runners’ Heartbreak. He could see only half a dozen runners ahead of McComb now. There might already be a couple beyond the crest of the hill, but Scott doubted it.
It was time to shift into a higher gear.
He did so, and was now among the serious runners, the greyhounds. But many of them were either beginning to flag or saving their energy for the steep grade. He caught unbelieving looks as the middle-aged man with his belly pushing out his sweaty tee-shirt first wove his way among them, then put them behind him.
Partway up Hunter’s Hill, Scott’s breath began to shallow up, and the air going in and out began to taste hot and coppery. His feet no longer felt so light, and his calves were burning. There was a dull ache on the left side of his groin, as if he had strained something there. The second half of the hill looked endless. He thought about what Milly had said: first fun, then heck, then hell. Was he in heck or hell now? On the border, he decided.
He had never really assumed he could beat Deirdre McComb (although he hadn’t discounted the possibility), but he had assumed he would finish the race somewhere near the front—that the muscles built to carry his earlier, heavier self would be enough to bring him through. Now, as he passed a couple of runners who had given up, one sitting with his head bent, the other lying on his back and gasping, he began to wonder about that.
Maybe I still weigh too much, he thought. Or maybe I just don’t have the sack for this.
There was another roll of thunder.
Because the top of Hunter’s didn’t seem to be getting any closer, he looked down at the road, watching the pebbles set in the macadam flying past like galaxies in a science fiction movie. He looked up just in time to keep from crashing into a redhead who was standing with one foot on either side of the yellow line, holding onto her knees and gasping. Scott barely avoided her and saw the crest of the hill sixty yards ahead. Also one of those orange markers: 10K. He fixed his eyes on it and ran, now not just gasping for breath but yanking for it, and feeling every one of his forty-two years. His left knee began to complain, pulsing in sync with the pain in his groin. Sweat ran down his cheeks like hot water.
You are going to do this. You will do this. Put it all on the line.
And why the fuck not? If Zero Day turned out to be today instead of in February or March, so be it.
He passed the marker and crested the hill. Purdy’s Lumberyard was on the right, Purdy’s Hardware on the left. Just two klicks to go. He could see downtown below him, twenty or so businesses on either side hung with bunting, the Catholic church and the Methodist one facing off like holy gunslingers, the slant parking (every space taken), the clogged sidewalks, and the town’s two stoplights. Beyond the second one was the Tin Bridge, where bright yellow finishing tape decorated with turkeys had been strung. Ahead of Scott he now saw only six or seven runners. The one in the red shirt was second, and closing the distance on the leader. Deirdre was making her move.
I’m never going to catch her, Scott thought. She’s got too much of a lead. That damn hill didn’t break me, but it bent me pretty good.
Then his lungs seemed to open up again, each breath going deeper than the one before. His sneakers (not blinding white Adidas, just ratty old Pumas) seemed to shed the lead coating they had gained. His previous lightness of body came rushing back. It was what Milly had called the following wind, and what pros like McComb no doubt called the runner’s high. Scott preferred that. He remembered that day in his yard, flexing his knees, leaping, and catching the branch of the tree. He remembered running up and down the bandstand steps. He remembered dancing across the kitchen floor as Stevie Wonder sang “Superstition.” This was the same. Not a wind, not even a high, exactly, but an elevation. A sense that you had gone beyond yourself and could go farther still.
Heading down Hunter’s, past O’Leary Ford on one side and Zoney’s Go-Mart on the other, he passed one runner, then another. Four back now. He didn’t know or care if they were staring as he blew past them. All of his attention was focused on the red shirt and blue shorts.
Deirdre took the lead. As she did, more thunder banged overhead—God’s starter pistol—and Scott felt the first cold splat of rain on the back of his neck. Then another on his arm. He looked down and saw more hitting the road, darkening it in dime-sized drops. Now there were spectators on either side of Main, although they still had to be a mile from the finish and half a mile from where the downtown sidewalks started. Scott saw umbrellas popping open like flowers blooming. They were gorgeous. Everything was—the darkening sky, the pebbles in the road, the orange of the marker announcing the Turkey Trot’s last K. The world stood forth.