Chapter 11: Marathon Day

Mike

It’d be a lie to claim I didn’t fantasize about Rashaun and Linda as I jacked off in bed. I kept my fantasy to just watching them, not joining in—that was more than hot enough. I’d planned to get off just the once, this night before a race, but thinking of them was so hot and distracting, I did it a second time—this time day-dreaming of Dana and Teri and me, making love in all our combinations, until even Dana had enough. Cumming again drained me, but it cleared my mental palette—and more importantly, sent me into a solid sleep.

Solid enough, I had no actual dreams—weird.

I woke Saturday alone in the wide bed. Rested. Morning light traced patterns of sun and shadow on the ceiling. Time, while I had a few minutes, to prepare.

To not just remind myself how to win, but stomp down those pieces of me that want me to lose. Like that voice that reminds me that I barely finished last year. That I haven’t raced since then, that I’m an amateur who doesn’t belong here. That I’m a crip, a damaged person.

Yeah well, little voice, time for you to shut the fuck up. Maybe I barely crossed that finish line, but I fucking finished. So what if I haven’t raced—I’ve been training, training hard, and am in better shape than ever—and know how to race better. Crips can be athletes—that’s the whole point of para-sports. And damaged or no, for the last time, I did it last year and can—no WILL do it again, you goddamn stupid lying liar that lies.

And see? This is how I’ll do it. I ran through my visualization—how to break free of the starting pack, finding the rhythm for my arms, the pace that will get me all the way through, willing myself through the tiredness, the exhaustion. The way to make it all the way.

I opened my eyes. I was ready. This race was mine.

“Now that,” Rashaun said, “is some serious game face.”

I side-eyed him, which isn’t easy to do at someone standing in front of you, while you’re seated, but I nailed the look. “You know it.”

“You ready to win?”

I shook my head, and got a sharp look in return. “Last year was about making it to the finish line. This year, it’s about beating my time—by at least 10 minutes. Other racers,” I waved them off. “Don’t give a damn. They can do whatever the hell they want.”

Rashaun slowly nodded, getting it. “Respect.”

“You,” I said pointedly, “can do whatever the hell you want, too.”

He laughed.

We were in the race prep area, surrounded by dozens of racers in wheelchairs. Dad walked over, pushing my racing chair—super-light frame with two slanted wheels plus a single large one on a long front nose. Helen carried the duffle with my supplies.

“It’s time,” Dad said unnecessarily. Time to get physically ready, the way I was mentally ready.

Rashaun and Linda helped me shift chairs and settle my legs in the proper kneeling position—that way I can bend over for more leverage. Took a couple adjustments to make sure my circulation was good, before we strapped me in. (I have some feeling in my legs, but can’t always sense pinched veins or nerves.) Stocked myself with a CamelBak, energy gel packs in pockets, an emergency power bar—can’t grab drinks from stations along the way, like runners do.

A race official confirmed my number was properly attached, and that I was the proper guy for the number.

Then time to wait. I finally caught sight of Amber through some racers rolling around to loosen up. She was stretching, prepping her muscles. Oh, right.

I watched as I started my own stretches—she was looking good, physically. But maybe—hmm—maybe not mentally. That was not a game face. That was a nervous face. The face of someone who failed once and is afraid she will again.

I rolled over, followed by my entourage. (Dude, that’s a joke.)

I nodded to her father, then said, “Hey, Amber.”

“Hey, Mike.”

“You ready?”

Deep breath. “I think so.”

I considered her as I pulled my right arm across again. “Do you do any visualizations before a race?”

She looked at me blankly, then shook her head.

I looked at Rashaun. “Can one of you?” and I nodded toward Amber.

“On it,” said Linda, with confidence.

Nice to have an entourage, innit?

As I continued my stretches, a guy about my age rolled to a stop beside me. “Michael Smith?”

I considered him. Vaguely familiar. Was he—?

“Derek McMahon. I came within 3 meters of beating you last year.”

Right—the third-place guy who almost overtook me at the finish line, after I bonked in the home stretch. I nodded.

“I checked—you haven’t raced this year. I have. I’ve been training. I’ve got the experience. And this year, it won’t even be close. You’re eating my dust.” He started rolling off without waiting for a response.

“Keep that confidence up,” I called after him. “You’re going to need it.”

Rashaun cackled. “You sound ready to beat him.”

“I am now.” Forget just finishing better than last year, forget ignoring the other racers. I didn’t want to beat myself. I wanted to crush that little turd.

I looked at Amber and Linda, who’d stopped to listen. “Do girls do that? —talk smack to get in your opponent’s head?”

Amber shook her head, but Linda said, “Yeah, but it’s more bitchy comments than trash talk.”

I nodded. Then I pointed at Amber. “You—I expect you to beat him too.”

She swallowed, then nodded gamely. “You got it.”

Game on.

Then wonder of wonders, it was starting time. I got last best wishes from my entourage—okay, fine, from Dad, Helen, Rashaun, Linda, Ewan, and Mr. Simmons, plus Helen (who had my phone) passed on “luck” and “strength” from Dana and Teri. Then Amber and I rolled over to the starting area.

All the para-racers were in one big scrum—men, women, all ages, and only T54 raced in this event, the full marathon. Because I hadn’t raced since last year, I didn’t have a qualifying time to warrant placing me in the front of the pack, like Derek. That was okay. Avoiding other wheels might delay me for a while, but once racers opened out I could hit my rhythm. Then, I was sure, I’d catch up to him.

Amber ended up on my left. She had a much better game face. We nodded to each other, and focused.

Breathe deep.

Breathe.

BEEP!

Game on.

Push. Push. Push.

The shush of pavement beneath my wheels.

Push. Push. Push.

Another turn coming up. Slightly less push with my left, slightly more on my right. No braking. Keep pushing. Round the turn.

Push. Push. Push.

Roll on.

Watch dings. Time for water. Catch the nipple in my mouth, without breaking my rhythm. Suck. Swallow. Breathe. Suck. Swallow. Release.

Push. Push. Push.

Keep the rhythm.

Push. Push.

Roll on.

Passing a chair is easy. Slipstream behind and left. With a straightway ahead, an extra push. Push push push. Hard. Onward. Past the guy. He’s gasping. I’m panting. I’m past him. I’m pushing. Push push push.

Not too hard, not too fast. He’s gone. I’m on. Back to the rhythm.

Push. Push. Push.

Passing my chair is easy. Her rhythm’s faster than mine. She has arms. She pushes, pushes, pushes, and is ahead. Ignore that. Ignore her rhythm. Keep the pace.

Not too hard. Race my race, not hers.

Push. Push. Push.

Arms don’t want to push. They’re tired. They’ve done enough, they say.

Don’t care. Push.

Just a short break, they tell me. Need to stretch, says my back.

They’re arms. It’s a back. They can’t talk. Push.

This is—

Keep going, I tell myself, my body. Push. Push through the wall.

Despite themselves, my arms move. Keep the rhythm.

Push. Push. Push.

Push on.

Ding. Water and sugar. Don’t want to bonk. Gel pack in pocket. Grab it between pushes. In mouth between pushes. Rip open with teeth between pushes. Squeeze between pushes. Suck it down. Push. Push. Kept my rhythm—good. Water. Need water to digest. Nipple. Suck, suck, swallow.

Back on pace. Push. Push. Push.

Take the turn. Still controlled, a little wide. That’s fine. Keep on keeping on.

Push. Push. Push.

Push on.

Ahead of me, I’m catching up. I know that number. A racer I do care about. His race, I do want to beat. Need to beat. And I can.

I stay behind him till we clear the turn. Then—push push push.

I pull even with Derek. I pass him. Push push push. He struggles, but remains behind me.

I stay on my rhythm. He stays behind me.

I don’t pull away. He stays behind me.

Push. Push. Push.

Pull ahead of this guy.

Push. Push.

Way ahead.

Push. Push.

Somewhere around me, a sound I know. A long sound. Cheers.

Push. Push.

Ahead, a yellow line across the pavement.

Push. Push.

Over the line.

Push. Pu—

No. Stop. I’m done. That was the finish.

Roll. Roll away. Roll through.

No more pushing.

I beat him. I won.

And I need air. Water. Rest.

Air.

Rashaun and Linda were long gone—started on their own race. Helen gave me water. Dad got me started on stretches. Both got me out of the way. Roll it off. Keep my arms loose. Drink up. Sweat it out and drink more.

I grinned up at them. “That,” I say. “That. Was. Fun.” Except for the wall. But I pushed through that.

“You look a lot better than last year,” Dad said.

“I. Am.”

“Results are still unofficial,” Helen told me, “but we watched the leaderboard as finishers crossed. You were second in your division, 20 seconds behind the winner.”

Whoa. “Third?”

“Over a minute behind you.”

But—huh?—Derek was pacing me for most of the last kilometer.

“That next boy?” Dad said. “He bonked in the home stretch, just like you did last year.”

Ha! Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Not.

I finally got my phone back from Helen. No messages since Dana and Teri, before the start. I sent a just as short reply: 1:41:53

Dana immediately sent back a gif of Kermit the Frog flailing his arms. Followed by a video call. I wasn’t up for that yet. I can has more recovery pls.

I declined with the Talk later? option.

She sent a thumbs-up, followed by a string of confetti emojis.

Yays. Well, I meant Yays! but I didn’t have an exclamation mark in me yet. Soon.

I found Amber. “You did it!” I shouted, rolling up to her. Keeping loose.

“Yes!” Gulp of water. “Yes!” She clasped my hand, stretching over our wheels. Her hair was as sweaty as mine.

She didn’t beat Derek—he had trained well, despite bonking from trying to keep up with me. She came in fifth among the girls, 10 minutes behind him, 12 behind me.

She shook her head. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

I gave her a Look. “Did you do better than you would have without that goal?”