I walk around the track. After a couple laps we’ve refined our technique to Molly saying in or out to steer me toward the inner or outer lanes, since my right and left keep changing and hers don’t and it’s confusing. She also says straight and curve when I switch between them and generally talks me through it since there’s no reason for us to be quiet.
A couple of runners pass me. It seems the only people on the track are running, not standing or walking, so Molly doesn’t have to steer me around anybody much; they have to steer around me.
“Straight,” Molly says. “In… in… okay, that’s good.”
I start to jog.
“Whoa, Parker! In… IN… out… okay, good. Are you sure this—curve! In… in… in… out… in… in… almost there… okay, straight now. More out, out. Okay, good. Jesus, Parker… stop!”
I stop. “What’s in front of me?”
“Nothing. It’s just, this is crazy! I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Me neither, that’s why you’re steering.”
“It’d be safer if I didn’t. Just because you want to run doesn’t mean you can pull me into your crazy! I don’t want to enable you into a fence.”
“Then don’t.”
“Good, let’s go—”
“No, I mean don’t steer me into any fences.” I start jogging again.
“Parker!”
I don’t answer. After a dozen more silent steps I have to stop.
“Molly?”
“What are you doing?”
“What?”
“There are lots of things I want to do but can’t. I live with it. Why’s it different for you?”
“I can’t see but I can run—all I need is directions. It’s like… slow dancing, right? If you don’t have a partner, people tell you to go find one, they don’t say you can’t dance. If you don’t want to be my partner, that’s cool—I know it’s probably boring sitting there giving me directions—but don’t tell me I can’t run.”
“Sorry, I… you just took me by surprise. It’s weird to be more worried for you than you are.”
“I told you I’m a mixed blessing.”
“I just hope all this running… that you’re running toward something, not away.”
“Ha, well, even the wisest cannot tell.”
“Is… is that from Lord of the Rings?”
“Truth is truth no matter where it comes from. I think I’m done anyway. Water’s in my shoes and I want to change out of these wet socks. Walk me back to the locker room?”
“Okay, down in a sec. Are you going to make me steer you again tomorrow?”
“I can’t make you do anything. Hopefully Trish will be with me all through practice tomorrow, but if she’s not, then… I, Parker Grant, AKA Batshit Crazy, hereby absolve Molly Ray of all responsibility for any collision or other calamities that might result from running blind with only Molly on the phone to guide me. How’s that?”
She hangs up.
I hear her voice a few feet away, coming closer.
“I think it’s the best I’m going to get.”
THIRTY
The next few days are a blur of routine classes and lunches and homework and no one comes to Office Hours. I run at my usual time but I get up earlier and stretch in my room instead of at Gunther Field to listen for Scott and Jason’s footsteps out front. Scott and I talk along with everyone else in Trig and at the track after school. Trish stays firmly in the conversations, though, like she’s my chaperone, or more like Scott’s chaperone.
After school Friday, Molly walks with me to the locker room even though I have a brand-new cane as of yesterday. Then she heads for the bleachers while I change. Trish finds me and we walk to the track. It’s a warm day and I have a lot of energy.
We’d decided with Coach not to worry about starting blocks or even sprints for another couple weeks. For now we’re just getting used to what he calls tethered running—we’ve graduated to holding separate ends of a short loop of shoelace instead of each other’s hands. We technically don’t need such a short line for jogging, but sprints will require perfect synchronization so we stay tight, side by side and in step. I’m getting a good feel for the oval now, though obviously I’ll never be able to run it by myself—no amount of counting paces could get me to navigate the curves—but my body is learning the layout, and jogging with Trish is smoother every day.
Trish doesn’t have steeplechase today or the thousand meters, her other distance, so it’s just the two of us for as long as we want to push it. Which is bad news for her. I could run like this forever.
After about a dozen laps I say, “You ready to run?”
“We are…”
I laugh. “This is jogging!”
We’ve gone maybe three miles—I haven’t really been keeping track—which is far longer than her distances but I figure at this pace she’d have plenty of juice left.
“I’m just the rudder,” she says in a determined voice. “You’re the motor.”
I pick it up, slowly to maintain our rhythm. Once we’re out of the turn I push our pace until we hit the next curve. When we’re out of it again, I push it some more.
Now this is running! Not my sprint speed but still a good solid run.