Through last week’s 100 miles in blizzard conditions, to this week’s 120 miles through the slush and mud of the Winter Thaw, Cecil never seriously entertained the notion of a day off.
Chapter Nineteen
HOGS IN BRAZIL
“Hello, sports fans, and welcome to Cable Sports Network. This is H.R. Javitts.
“Well, my boss knows I’m a party animal, so I’m down here in Brazil at the São Silvestre Midnight Run, an amazing New Year’s sporting event that’s been contested seventy-nine times. The current distance is fifteen kilometers, nine point three miles, through the streets and alleys of São Paulo.
“Not since 1979 when Herb Lindsey and Dana Slater dropped down here and won, has the USA won this coveted international event.
“I’m standing here with Chuck Madras and Diana Bailey, two young Americans who are the newest São Silvestre champions. Congratulations and Happy New Year to you both!”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Javitts.”
“Chuck, I understand you’re a short-distance man, a 5,000-meter specialist. What compelled you to come all this way to race three times farther than your spesh-ee-al-i-ty?”
“Well, our coach, Calvin Benlehr, told us about this race and its amazing history. We decided in November, when the temps at our training camp in Colorado stayed below freezing, to treat ourselves to this trip as a Christmas present.”
“Chuck, you ran 43:57, one of the fastest times ever recorded on the current course. Did you expect to win?”
Madras dropped his gaze to his shoe tops and smiled.
“It’s funny you ask that question. The only person who thought we were ready for a fast race was our coach. We’ve been running in the mountains in snow and sand. We haven’t done speed work and we haven’t raced. My win came as a complete surprise.”
“How does this translate to your readiness for the track?” Javitts asked.
“Well, Mr. Javitts, . . .”
“Call me H.R.”
“Well, H.R. It’s the middle of winter back home and I don’t intend to run indoor track, so it will be April before I can see where I am. The Olympic Trials are in July. But tonight’s race tells me two things: I can run pretty far at a pretty fast pace.”
“Now, Diana, can you describe your race for us? I understand this is the longest race you’ve ever run.”
“First, I’m amazed at this event. It’s like Mardi Gras, only bigger. I wondered how we’d be able to run through the narrow streets and alleyways with this enormous crowd. The people here are wonderful, though, and so encouraging.
“I went out very hard for me, 16:20 at five kilometers, and just held on for dear life. Even though I slowed near the end, the leading women kept coming back to me. I had enough left to outkick Fatima Chechuba of Kenya the final block.”
“Tell me, kids, what does the H.O.G. stand for on your shirts?”
“It means High-altitude Olympic Group. And Coach’s father-in-law sends us lots of pork, so there’s a double meaning there.
“By the way, you didn’t mention our teammate, Chris Nikolas. He got eighth place!”
“Thank you, HOGs – a great race for sure. Congratulations. That’s it from me, Home Run Javitts, coming to you from Brazil. Back to you, Deborah, at our studios in Chicago. Oh, and Happy New Year everybody!”
Chapter Twenty
MIDWINTER
John Corbin shivered. The damp wind chilled his cold, sore muscles. His feet landed like blocks of ice on the concrete street. Gray slush filled the gutters; the temperature was twelve degrees and felt colder. Gray clouds reflected the city’s streetlamps. It was another gray day in Cleveland.
His morning route took him through downtown, just a quarter-mile from The Old Mercantile Apartments where he lived. At 5:00 a.m., he had the alleys and streets to himself. The men emptying garbage bins nodded their recognition as John raised a gloved hand in greeting. Distance runners and trashmen worked while the city slept.
Today was unpleasant. John ran past the 24/7 Spa on Superior Street and envied the few early birds who ran in place on their rubber-belted treadmills, watching the invariable bad news on television. His footing was poor. He slowed to a walk on several icy turns.
Two miles into his eight-mile morning course, he passed the Key Tower for the hundredth time since moving back to Cleveland. A delivery truck stood before the raised loading dock door. A river of warm air flowed across the sidewalk, giving John a moment’s relief from the numbing cold. He stopped, walked back to the street-side thermal, seeking a few more seconds of comfort, when he noticed a staircase leading into the bowels of the building.
John headed up. It had been nearly a month since he’d been able to run hill repeats because of the ice. An uphill without slipping! What an unexpected treat.
The building security guards will discover me and throw me out, he thought. But nowhere on the 57-story ascent did he see anyone. The climb was uniform to the top: Eleven steps, a landing, eleven steps, another floor.
Despite his high fitness, John could feel the strain in his calves and quads by the 15th floor. By the 30th, he reached his anaerobic limit. He slowed to a fast walk, pulling himself upward on the handrails and reached the 55th, the last available floor.
He slowly jogged down, stuffing his hat and gloves into his pouch. By the time he reached the street, he felt fully recovered.
John stashed his clothes behind a steam pipe and headed up again. Thirty stories is about right, he decided, and finished his inaugural climb at five reps.
“Once a week, until spring, I will run this mountain in downtown Cleveland,” he promised himself.
* * * * *
Cecil Medley limped through his long run, a twenty-two-miler on the rolling dirt roads of northeastern New Mexico. The interval between a pain-free landing on his left foot and the searing pain in his right arch was too brief for real relief.
As all runners do, Cecil feared that this pain signaled a premature end to his Olympic dream. Is it a stress fracture or arthritis? Will I damage a nerve by continuing? Running like this is likely to transmit the injury to my knee or my hip, he thought.
But the impulsion developed on the way to becoming a serious distance runner has its own momentum. Like an up-stoppable flywheel, the brain and the muscles continued to function. Through last week’s hundred miles in blizzard conditions, to this week’s one-hundred-and-twenty miles through the slush and mud of the Winter Thaw, Cecil never seriously entertained the notion of a day off.
I’ll ice it when I’m done, take a few aspirin, give it a good rub- I’ll be OK by tomorrow.
Cecil turned onto the final five-mile leg of the course, into the teeth of another cold front dropping down from Colorado. He zipped his Nebraska State windbreaker to his chin and retied the drawstring of his hood. His hands were going numb, doubly wet from perspiration inside his mittens and mucus from his nose on the outside.
Forget how you feel, Medley. Think about Jackson, Mississippi, and the Olympic Trials. Suck it up. Your preparations are almost done.
__
7:00 a.m. – to the Arch and return in 2:17
estimated 22 miles
9:00 p.m. – 90 minutes in weight room