The Hill

The spectators crane their necks and stand on tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the leaders spilling out of the woods and onto the straightaway, but I don’t have to look to know he’s there. I slip between a few people too caught up in the race to care, and press myself against the fence so I’ll have an unobstructed view when he passes by. The red dot of his uniform in the distance grows and grows until he’s close enough for me to make out a face clenched with unbreakable determination, and arms whirling furiously. He’s sitting in third place right now, waiting for the right moment to surge ahead. Too early, and he’ll run out of steam. Too late, and the others will be out of reach.
Against my better judgment, I imagine myself as one of those runners in front—aware that he’s closing in and ready to make a move of my own in response. But there’s no point in imagining what could be. You can’t run a race with one good leg.
He passes the kid in second with about a hundred meters to go, and nips at first place’s heels, ready to pass him too. I squeeze out of my position against the fence and turn away before he moves into first. Once the crowd’s steady cheering crescendos to a roar, I know it’s over.

I wake up to the loudspeaker for the last time. It fades in and out at first, and the familiar call to get dressed for morning stretches barely registers. But after a few seconds, that voice pierces through the grogginess and stays there like a bad side-stitch. It happens the same way as any other morning at camp. But this time, my eyes shoot open as soon as I remember what today is. I almost catch my foot on the guardrail hoisting myself down from the top bunk too fast, and wince at the sharp pain that courses through my ankles. Thankfully, I don’t land hard enough for it to make a difference on the run today.

I survey the cabin. For once, I’m the first one out of bed. I even beat Drew, who’s always dressed and ready to run before I manage to rub the sleep out of my eyes. Right then, he’s still lying in his bottom bunk, nose jammed up against the pillow. A slow groan, muffled by the mattress, is the only sound that escapes his motionless mass, tangled in a twisted mess of sheets.

“Rise and shine, boys!”

Our counselor Mike’s bellowing, followed by his signature rapid hand clapping, does the trick for everyone else after the loudspeaker fails. Five sluggish teenagers bolt upright with a sudden urgency that probably belies their real feelings about what the morning has in store.

“Last morning workout! Let’s make it a great one.”
After one last clap, Mike moves out of our bunkroom into the adjacent one to give the other members of the cabin similar motivation. For the first time all week, I don’t need any extra.

I open the drawer next to the bunk beds that Drew and I share, snatch the t-shirt on top, and stretch it over my shoulders in the same motion. By this point Drew is fully awake but still sitting on the bed, gaze directed out the big window overlooking the main field. If he’s feeling the hurt from the past six days of physical agony—two runs a day, intensive clinics in between—he shows no sign of it. His back is straight and his eyes wide open. It looks like he’s staring past the main field to the tiny ribbon of pavement that leads off the campgrounds, where every run of the week begins. I can’t tell whether that look implies anticipation or dread.

He turns to me. We exchange nods almost imperceptibly. The past few days haven’t left us much to talk about. I guess you could say that’s natural after spending such a long time with anyone, even your best friend. But I know, and by now Drew must have picked up on it too. Something’s changed.

We’ve always been close in every sense of the word. In the heat of competition and outside it. I remember running last fall’s cross-country races—hurtling out of the woods onto the finishing straightaway, face contorted with pain, trying to drum up reserves of strength that I wasn’t sure I had. At some point on that last six hundred meter stretch, familiar breathing—labored but steady—would always sneak up from behind. I never had to look back. Drew’s presence at my heels was all it took to shift into the highest gear, a speed impossible to reach at any other point in the race. Sometimes he would jockey ahead of me for a split second in spite of that. But I knew victory was secure when I couldn’t hear that breathing anymore—only the cheers of spectators washed out by my fixation on that banner mercifully displaying FINISH, rippling in the breeze a couple hundred meters ahead.

He would always finish a second or two behind, but there were never any hard feelings. Even through pure exhaustion, we never missed a post-race high-five and a strained “good race” before collapsing on the grass. After a few minutes of recovery, we went back to our usual routine of complaining about the hellish course and cracking jokes during a slow cool-down loop before heading home.

Drew never really lost, and I never really won. We just always pushed each other to run our hearts out. And I think that was fine by both of us.

These past few days should have been the same. But Drew hasn’t been beside me on every run—he’s surged ahead with the rest of the cabin while I’ve struggled behind the pack. For once, we haven’t been improving at the same rate. I haven’t even been on his heels. I’ve submitted to my role as the straggler, trying in vain to overcome too much lactic acid in my quavering legs and reach him in the distance. On every morning run so far, I’ve been the last one back on campgrounds, flaring quads demoting my stride to a clumsy shuffle. Last place. Second place.

This morning is our final hard workout of the week. It’s also my last chance to prove that I can stay with him, because that’s the way it should be.

“Let’s go boys! I hope everyone’s changed. Grab your water bottles and let’s get down to the courts.” The corners of Mike’s lips lifted just slightly. “Then I’ll let you guys know what’s in store for this morning.”

I would have dragged my heels on any other morning. It’s a daily routine for the whole camp to gather on the tennis courts across the main field and stretch. The only thing more mind-numbing would be sitting and staring at the cracks on the clay surface for the whole half hour that the ritual took. But today, Mike’s announcement puts a spring in my normally sluggish steps out the door.

Drew shuffles past me on the way out, hands jammed in his pockets, studying the grass. He probably doesn’t know what to say. For the first time in a while, I decide to start conversation.

“What do you think it’s gonna be? The hill?”

He slows a little and cranes his neck back with a shrug. “Could be.” He lets out a small laugh. “I hope not though, for everyone’s sake.”

Now that Drew acknowledges the possibility, it seems pretty likely. Even though there’s not a flat stretch of road within a ten-mile radius of camp, everyone knows which hill you mean when you mention the hill. Supposedly, it winds for more than half a mile up a slope that forces the most eager stride into a desperate jog. Whenever it’s come up this week, counselors and veteran campers have shaken their heads ruefully and sighed things like “it just never ends.” We haven’t run it yet, and Mike isn’t the type of counselor to let us on the buses home tomorrow without pushing us to the limit.

By the time we make it across the field, only slivers of green clay are exposed among clusters of restless runners sitting on the court. The undercurrent of conversation hums louder than normally. I can only assume that everyone else wants to get this workout started as badly as I do. But probably not for the same reasons.

An older counselor stands facing the throng and starts dictating the familiar stretching routine through a megaphone. I try to focus but my mind transports me to the base of the hill, with a view of the gravel path upward looking stark and steep, like the last rock face separating a mountain climber from the summit.

Muscle memory determines the position of my legs and arms for the next half hour—I’ve been through enough morning and afternoon sessions to have the order of stretches down by now. For once, the ritual breezes by.

When it’s over, Mike claps his hands and motions us over to the edge of the court, right next to the rutted path that marks the start of our workout.

“We all here? Alright, good. So here’s the deal—we’re going with a nice seven-miler. It’s the last day, so it’s gonna be…” He pauses and flashes his familiar, almost devious smile. “It’s gonna be brisk.”

I keep a stone face. It’s not an easy workout by any means, but nothing too much harder than what we’re used to by now. And no mention of the hill. To my right, Drew also wears an unreadable expression.

Mike folds his arms as if to say he’s finished, and keeps the grin plastered to his face. But as soon as several kids in the group start to shuffle away toward the road, he raises his hand and motions them back.

“You’ll be starting with a seven-miler. That will take us to the base of the hill.”

I turn and flash Drew a wide-eyed grin—one last gesture of peace before I do what I have to do. He returns the smile and shakes his head

“We’ll be taking a quick break at the base, then doing three sprints up the hill. I want them all to be consistent. If you can make each one faster than the next, all the better. After the three intervals, we’ll take a break, then jog a mile or so back to camp. Any questions?”

Silence.

“Alright then. Let’s move out.”

Hastily, we organize ourselves into rows of two. I usually feel constricted in such a rigid formation, but today I move right up to Drew’s left hip without hesitation. I do my best to stay aligned with him as our feet carry us off the court and meet pavement. It’s easy at first—Mike always has us start workouts slowly. Since we end up accelerating to breakneck speed about a mile or two in, the initial easy pace is normally a fleeting luxury. I’ve always let my mind wander at this speed, and actively tried to appreciate staying with the pack for a little while. But right now my mind is calculating furiously, already torn between two missions--willing my legs to save as much energy as possible before the onslaught to come, and modeling my stride after Drew’s.

Our two-by-two formation remains tight as we glide down the road away from camp. We only stray from our straight route to skirt a pothole or puddle—but even then we stay at each other’s hips. My stride picks up a little, almost unconsciously, and a sharp sense of calm washes over me. At that moment, I forget about Drew. Putting one foot in front of the other suddenly seems purposeful and beautiful. It’s the kind of runner’s high every distance runner aims for during a long workout. I’ve experienced it a few times, but never this early on. When the short exit path ends and we spill out onto the main road, I feel completely at ease for the last time that week.

I’m vaguely aware of a grassy field and a few gnarled trees in my periphery, but I keep my eyes trained straight ahead. I know by now that the area doesn’t offer much in the way of scenery, but for once that doesn’t bother me. Maybe this is it—finally I’m getting the payoff from a week of hell.


The balls of my feet propel me off the pavement at a rapid clip. After a few minutes, I finally settle into a familiar groove. I also become aware of my place next to Drew once again. A quick look to my right tells me that we’re still perfectly aligned, running at the same pace. I suddenly notice that I’ve been copying Drew’s frenetic arm movements too.

By now the runner’s high has faded, and the first inklings of pain start to set in. I clench my fists and focus on forward progress. One foot, then the other. It starts to become mechanical. Every stride chips away at the total time left before the hill. The hill means the end—or at least a break before the second part of the workout—and there’s only so much road left before we get there.

It’s around mile five that I usually start to lag behind, but I stay with the group this time despite burning lungs and legs that get heavier every second. Our formation remains intact across the uneven terrain.

Eventually, the paved road transitions to gravel. Ahead, the path spikes upward at a dramatic angle. It can only be the base of the hill.

Sure enough, Mike bellows, “We’re stopping up ahead! Right before it slopes up.”

I push through the pain and come to a stuttering halt, thrusting my head back to gasp for much-needed oxygen. To the right, Drew mirrors my exhaustion. He wobbles as he decelerates, and it looks like he’s about to crumple onto the gravel before he regains his posture and comes to a standstill beside me. Neither of us musters the energy to say anything.

Aside from a face drenched in sweat, Mike looks like he just ran a one-mile cool-down. He claps and motions for us to gather around.

“Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Twelve red faces and puffing stomachs provide the only answer.

He laughs. “Alright, take it easy for a few minutes. Then we’ll attack the hill.”

Still in a stupor, we disband like a pack of zombies. My hands stay pressed against the back of my head while I saunter to the edge of the path and look up to the sky.

It must have been about ten minutes before Mike tells us to line up for the first interval, but it feels like seconds. My desperate gulps for air have mellowed to steady drags, but lactic acid draws out its unwelcome stay in my muscles. I might as well be wearing leg weights. Not ideal for hill sprints, when half the battle is powering upward with quads and calves that start to sear after a few feet.

Drew shakes one leg out, then the other. He springs up into a few quick jumps before making his way over to our starting line at the base. I follow suit, though I know a few shakes won’t make much difference in the battle against gravity that my legs are about to fight. But I can’t let Drew have any kind of advantage.
Mike takes his place in front of our line.
“Ready?”

I inch up just slightly. I notice with a burst of satisfaction that Drew flits his eyes toward me and does the same.

“Let’s go!”

My heart sinks like a rock the moment our feet spout up ankle-high swirls of dirt. The difference between the hills on the way here and the hill becomes stark after I try to raise my knees extra high—the way I’ve been taught to run all steep inclines—and find that I physically can’t after a few seconds. The tempo of my labored gasps starts to outpace my strides—to use the word generously. They’re more like jabs. Jabs against slippery streams of gravel that defy upward progress.

Ages go by before the hill makes a sharp curve left. Even after we turn, I still can’t see the top. Since there’s no visible point to push for, all I have to keep me on pace is Drew. I turn instinctively to my right to gauge how Drew is holding up, but he’s not there. I swivel my head forward to find him already a few feet ahead, arms flying as he pushes upward.

Something kicks in. The gravel gives me a little extra push this time, and I close the gap by about a foot. With the hill’s plateau finally in sight, I creep up on his heels and manage to stay there until the breathless slog ends. But that doesn’t change the order that we finish. Drew’s first, I’m last.

Pure physical pain quickly eclipses the sting of disappointment at losing. At that moment, I can’t decide whether having to run two more intervals brings me hope or dread.

A stunned silence looms over the group on the recovery jog downhill. I try to keep a positive mindset. At least the hill’s unbelievable length lets me recuperate for a while. But nothing short of falling asleep on a bed—even the stiff excuse for a mattress back in the cabin—would prepare me for two more poundings like that.

I linger behind Drew on the jog down, so that I’ll start a little ahead when we turn around and run back up—though I don’t know how much difference that will make. As I expected, the jog isn’t long enough, and I’m slow to pivot around to start the second run up. The late reaction costs me my position ahead of him.

Just like on the seven-miler before, I try to think of this interval in purely mechanical terms. What speed do I need to reach to keep up with Drew, and how long do I have to maintain it? I try to take pain out of the equation—mentally at least—but there’s no use. A side-stitch skewers my ribcage. That pain piles on top of the fire in my legs and lungs. It’s more of a climb than a speed interval at this point. But I stay on his heels around the first bend.

When the end appears again—it might as well be a thousand miles away—Drew picks up the pace. He must notice me breathing down his neck. I try to adjust my pace to match his, but every part of my body shrieks, and I can’t maintain it. He wins again.

I want to sink into the level ground and pass out on impact, but I don’t even kneel down for fear of cutting off precious oxygen flow. Not that it would make much of a difference—my respiratory system sputters when I try to inhale more than the tiniest bit of air. I don’t know how I can expect to redeem myself on the last interval.

Disjointed thoughts ricochet off the walls of my mind. I can’t take hold of any one for more than a second or two. Doubts and worries race past words of imagined inspiration. Empty the tank. Show some heart. Easier said than done.

He looks spent too, at least. A few steps away, he’s staring at the ground and slowly expelling spittle as white as his face, hands clamped against his knees. The sight makes my stomach churn, but it also gives me a glimmer of hope.

Mike still has a spring in his step as he motions us back down the hill, but his breathing is heavy and he lets out a few coughs. Even he isn’t superhuman. Seeing an elite college runner react that way to a high school workout before it’s even finished makes me more nervous.

On the way down this time, my new strategy is to plant myself right on Drew’s hip. I have to stay with him before I push ahead at the very end. Any coach would tell me not to start my kick too early during a race—this workout is no exception.

I don’t jog more than halfway down before my legs surrender and I have to taper off to a power walk. Drew maintains a jog. I compensate for slowness by stretching my walking strides to uncomfortable lengths. Somehow it works. In unison, Drew and I whirl around a little too quickly to start the last interval.

This is a race, I think to myself. The finishing straightaway. Two minutes, and it’s over. In the grand scheme of things, two minutes of pain is nothing, no matter how bad that pain is.

I know it might slow me down, but I chance a split-second glance at Drew. His face, clenched with unbreakable determination, tells me everything I need to know. He wants this as badly as I do.

Pain piles on with every passing second. Complete breaths are a luxury neither of us can afford. Jab, advance. Jab, advance. Our arms lose all semblance of form and flail like we’re free falling. Hip to hip, we look like some two-headed beast about to breathe its last.

The sight of the top isn’t a marker of hope this time. Instead, seeing it still so far away confirms that this is the most painful run I’ve ever experienced.

The finish seems to recede further and further the closer we get. Somehow, we make it within twenty meters. Time to kick.

I pull strength from reserves so deep that I’ve never touched them before. I dart ahead and to the right, cutting Drew off with no distance left for him to regain the lead.
His body had been blocking the hole--I don’t see it until it’s too late.

My foot plunges into a lake of tiny pebbles, only a few inches deep. It stays wedged in there and forces my stride to a careening halt. The rest of my body splays sideways and thuds to the ground in a cloud of dust. I don’t feel my leg at first—I just hear the crack.

The vomit I’ve been suppressing since the first interval finally spews in a few quick bursts. I can’t crane my neck, but a slow eye movement reveals my leg lying twisted at an unnatural angle. That’s when the pain comes.

Everyone is stopped and gathered around at this point, and Mike frantically examines my injury while punching numbers into a small cell phone. Drew stands right above the twisted limb looking down, wearing an expression that I can’t read before it fades out.

* * *


I wake up long before the loudspeaker rousts everyone else—but I’ve been in and out of sleep the whole night. I push myself off my new mattress—a spare bottom bunk, since I’m in no condition to be sleeping in my top one anymore—and silently grab my crutches from against the wall. I make my way out onto the porch as fast as one leg can carry me.

A sliver of sun peeks out from the red skyline. It’s a nice enough scene to sit down and watch for a while.

I ease myself onto the porch’s wooden surface and look outward. I’m done for this coming cross-country season at least. Probably for the whole year. A whole slew of races to watch from the stands. And all I had wanted was to prove myself.

My gaze traces downward from the sky to the familiar sight of the courts. And next to them, the path. That short stretch of road that had led the way to hours of struggle. I thought they had meant something.

After a while there’s nothing left to think about, but my eyes stay trained on the path for a long time.