“Usually,” Jason says. “C’mon.”
We walk toward the field, I think. I’m kind of disoriented with nothing but grass underfoot and the sun overhead.
“How are those new shoes working out, Parker?”
“You’re right, spring-foam is bullshit.”
He laughs. “Yeah. Sorry.”
There’s a moment of grass crunching, and then he says, “I, uh, guess you probably already know your way around here, huh?”
I shrug. “Not really. I did weight training with Coach Rivers and hardly ever go to the field. I’m not much of a spectator.”
“But you said you run.”
“I do. Every day. Just not here.”
“I can’t remember from yesterday… we were talking, and I asked you what your—”
“Hundred meters,” I say.
“Really?”
“Why? What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I mean, I just figured you for a longer distance.”
“The way I run, a hundred meters is plenty long.”
“How do you run?”
“What do you mean?” I’m suspicious again. Am I reading too much into things? Generally yes, but this time?
“Well, you said a hundred meters is long the way you run, so what way is that?”
“Oh. Like the devil’s chasing me.”
He laughs. “I get it. No throttle. That’s cool.”
“What—” I stop myself. What am I doing with all these questions? But I can’t help it. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t be paranoid,” he says in a just-joking voice. “It means you don’t pace yourself. For a hundred meters you don’t have to. How about you, Molly? Going to give it a try?”
“This isn’t what you call a runner’s physique,” she says. “My distance is from the couch to the refrigerator and back.” Her words insult herself but her tone calls him a jerk.
“Fair enough,” he says, then he calls out, “Coach Underhill! Hey Coach!”
My stomach tightens. I don’t want to have this conversation at all, much less with anyone else listening, and I wonder what I’m doing here. A few possible answers flit around me but I can’t tell if they’re mine or my troll brain’s. I shoo them away.
It’s not as bad as I feared, though not as good either. Probably because I always have high hopes and low expectations. Either way I’m glad Coach Underhill sent Jason and Molly packing so we could talk alone.
Apparently guide wires are no longer used because they slow you down too much. Sounds like a terrible idea anyway. Having someone stand at the finish line and call out when you’re veering out of your lane is another way, but only for practice since it’s not allowed in competition. I don’t understand why—doesn’t seem like it would bother anyone else, but I guess it wouldn’t work with more than one blind runner in a race. Only guide runners are allowed, where the pair either hold on to each other or to a short connecting rope.
It stinks. First off, you need a partner or you can’t run, which sucks all by itself. Then your guide needs to be able to keep up so already you’re admitting you can’t win because you can’t even enter unless you bring someone who’s faster than you. So much for empowering the disabled.
Before I can tell him I’ve changed my mind, he says the first step is to see how fast I run to match me up with possible guides. He guesses what my duffel bag is for and says we can do it now if I hurry and change since there aren’t many people on the track. Somehow the rush of it all leads me through the locker room—which I’d happily said goodbye to forever last spring—and I find my way back to the track with Molly’s help, bouncing on my toes and stretching and running in place to warm up. Coach sends Molly into the stands and I don’t know where Jason is but as soon as this thought pops into my head I feel unsettled… tipsy… uncomfortable about what I’ve gotten myself into.
“Just to get a basic time for a hundred meters,” Coach says, “it’s better for you to run the field instead of the oval. I’ll call you from the fifty-yard line and then run backwards to stay ahead. Nothing fancy—I’ll just say right or left if you’re veering too much. Just adjust in the direction I say, all right?”
“Okay.”
“You ever use starting blocks before?”
“No.”
“All right, let’s not worry about that now—we just want a ballpark time. Here, take my arm.”
I put out my hand and a hairy forearm pushes up against my palm. He leads me a few steps and we adjust till I’m standing in the “end zone,” whatever that means.
A minute later I hear him call from far ahead. “Point at me!”
I do. He says, “Turn to your left… stop! Okay, now you’re pointing straight at me—that’s your direction. I’ve got the pistol. Tell me when you’re ready!”