There are twenty steps left. Well, something like that. The stretch of highway tells lies to many, but he knows he’s close. Scuff, scuff, Scuff, scuff, Scuff, scuff. His healthy leg carries his stride. The sun beats his bald head, his bare shoulders, and his sore back. With each step his mind races. The painful tranquility of the last 30 minutes departed a few dozen steps ago. Up to this moment in this ultramarathon, his mind controlled his body, fighting to stay afloat. The final steps towards the finish line break his conscious from the constraints of the reality of the moment. His mind is dangerously free.

He was not born like this. Weakness loved to threaten him, so strength is something he built. The scuff of his father’s favorite timberland boots as he walked away and his mom’s silent scream deafened him. Some can afford new ears, but some can do nothing but run away from the noise. At first his mom ran with him, not because she worried for her son but because she worried for herself. With every step, every painful sensation silently screaming throughout his body, he grew strong enough to bear some of her pain and remain by her side; at 16 years old, he made the choice to stay in the broken neighborhood snaring his mother, condemning his father’s escape.

***

“You run like a squirrel,” his coach barked, “so fast until you burn out, standing and staring at me.”

“Look at me,” his coach paused. “When I say look at me, I mean it.”

He looked.

“You can go sprint down the road anywhere. That’s not helping you,” his coach continued. “Listen to me, you have so much to learn. You can run, but I can make you a runner. You just need to trust me.”

After practice, he hopped on his bicycle. Arriving home, he detected the permeating odor of his mother’s homemade chicken pot pie, the buttery fragrance sweetly serenading the audience in his nose. Lying on the couch was his father, coughing along in an unstable melody. Cough. Cough, cough. He covered his mouth vainly with the crook of his arm. Cough. Cough, cough.

His father refused to go to the hospital. “Hospitals are where people go to die,” his father would repeat. When the boy’s dad was a child, his younger brother suffered from a long, losing battle with congenital heart disease. His distrust for hospitals started early. He always treated his son at home, and often, the boy would stay sick for longer than necessary. When the boy injured himself running, his father would get him an ice pack and do everything he could to help him recover. His dad’s methods, empirically justified yet logically unsound, had yet to fail.

His father taught the boy how to run. Running through the woods at night, both sprinted at the sound of a snapping stick or a falling branch. The boy learned uneven pacing. He bounded inconsistently from running through the hills and over the roots. When he started running for the track team, the boy had no intention of running long distances. He tried out for the 100, 200, and 400 meter races, losing by a striking margin in each. The coach dismissed his running ability, declaring he would never amount to a varsity track runner unless “God himself sent you a new pair of legs.”

The boy took this comment personally, and with a reignited sense of determination, sprinted, jogged, jogged, sprinted, jogged, jogged, somehow keeping his 400 meter pace for another 800 meters. The coach’s head was a swivel, back and forth between the boy and his watch. In all of his years of coaching, he had never seen something like this. While the boy’s 400 meter time was remarkably slow, that pace earned him a bit more respect when he maintained it over the course of 800 meters, especially after running before that. While his running form–and not to mention his strategy–was utterly ridiculous, the coach saw raw potential for endurance running.

“Go run four more laps,” the coach ordered. “Steady pacing, now!”

He ran another four laps, steadily pacing himself around the track, running just as fast as his 400 and 800 meter run. Needless to say, he earned himself a place on the team.

***

His life was full of running. Since as long as he could remember, he looked up to his brother. His older brother had run in high school, college, and in the Olympics. Ever since he could remember, coaches rotated in and out of their large house in Flagstaff, Arizona, the running destination of many.

The coaches helped him run, purely out of pity and good manners. Clearly, his brother’s success was more important, especially when it came to their job security. However, every now and then, he would pick up a few helpful tips as he looked up to his seemingly never-tiring older brother.

At the pace the boy could barely finish 10 miles, his brother ran 15 with ease. Growing up an extraordinary athlete, overshadowed by one even more talented, often created a lack of pride in the boy’s accomplishments, both from himself and his parents. While they sent their sons to some of the same races, his brother’s 10 mile race time of under 45 minutes clearly separated the two brothers by a few minutes. Any advanced runner would know: his brother was a world record contender, and he would not crack the top 1000 runners in the event though running below a five minute per mile pace for 10 miles impresses anybody at a dinner party.

The boy grew tired of looking up to his brother, being the mediocre gifted son. Both received the same gift, but his brother received the greater share. His parents never betrayed their feelings outright, but he always knew. When they ordered him to “let his brother train” and to “let his coaches do their job,” each of their words ignited his heart, the organ punching at his rib cage. 

His body grew warmer and warmer with anger at every passive-aggressive remark. When his brother would beat him in video games, he would let his rage consume him, one time, with a running start, punching some of the tile off of his kitchen backsplash. His anger only gripped him tighter when he realized the only way he knew how to truly deal with his hot blood was passed on from his brother.

“Use it to launch yourself forward,” his brother would instruct. “Feel your anger flinging you, kinda like a slingshot.”

“What if I fall forward onto my face?”

“Well it’s gonna happen. Just remember to look up at me, I’ll be there to pick you up because I know how it feels.”

Running hard, his legs screaming, his lungs treading water while his body drowned in lactic acid, the boy left all his emotions on the scenic five and a half mile loop his brother used to train. Throwing himself past each tree, over each root, across each bridge, and down each road, the boy looked up in the air. “I won’t look up to you anymore!” he yelled into the unforgiving winter air. His words were met with a painful howl as the wind cut through the two buildings he stood between, echoing his angst.

His brother never slowed down as he believed a long distance runner never should. A car crash at 120 miles per hour while running from the police finally forced him to change his mind. The crash took his car, his license, and his mobility, but fortunately not his life. 

His brother’s first words after regaining his voice: “You run for me now.”

***

As the three young men stepped out of van number 8 and up to the starting area, they exchanged glances. Walking with each other to the starting line, their silence screamed volumes. Their pace steady and their eyes cast up, they walked with purpose. 

Toeing the line, they waited for the start. Each tried clearing their mind, much to no avail. All three of them, united in insanity, had eyes that burned. If there had been a race official unfortunately strolling in front of their gazes, he would have instantly melted into the ground beneath his feet. Each learned over their long running career to use their insanity as fuel to ignite their passion. The three runners bonded on a level unknown to any other. With their lives behind them and the whole race ahead, they shared a deep understanding. Each could tell the others had long distance running to thank for keeping them alive.

One started the race, looking up to the front of the crowd. He muscled up the pack, taking people one by one. Every single person in this race had robbed his brother of his running career while simultaneously remarking on how he would never reach his brother’s level of success. Not one person here knew what his life was like. Not one person here could feel his anger. Not one person here could take his pain. He would not let down his brother who watched at every corner, reminding him that no one ever died or lost their legs from moving too quickly, that it was stopping too abruptly that killed them.

Meanwhile another, sprinted to catch up. He bounded up the stretch of highway, closing the gap between himself and the more ambitious runners. His father’s death slowed him down, allowing him to fall into his steady pace. With his coach’s words fresh as ever, his steps tapped a rhythm, his breathing joining in. Those guys will fail. Do NOT let them drag you with them.

The last of the men in van 8 silently screamed as he pushed up the hill. His mother ran with him, not because she worried for herself but because she worried for her son. She knew he would never stop until he proved himself worthy of a father and a normal life. He detested the others for believing their pain could possibly compare to what he had experienced. Living without a father for years, he internalized that self-hatred. Feeling pain in his legs bothered him because he felt weak not because he felt pain.

All three of them, silently screaming, steadily pacing, and looking up, ran to no end. When the race had finished three runners remained, running the course. The winner, runner-up, and third place trophies sat unclaimed at the prize tent. Their newfound owners still paced around the course, muscling past each other. Scuff, scuff, Scuff, scuff, Scuff, scuff. All of them became one, joined through pain. Their strides matched, their blood boiled, and their minds went numb.

As a grave understanding passed between the runners, one by one they slowed down. As they slowed, their pain crept up, the numbness fading. No one ever died from moving too fast. The three runners died from stopping too abruptly. Running so hard for so long took the ultimate toll on their bodies, yet none of them died with anything short of a smile. Their hearts steadily paced, slowing down, and finally coming to a stop. The three looked up to the sky, screaming a silent song of freedom.