Racing the Rain Read online

  “Jeez, are you still growing?”

  “Six foot two and the shortest guy on the starting five,” said Cassidy.

  “Well, I know you’ve been running, ’cause you can’t possibly weigh more than a hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “I’ve been taking these protein pills, drinking banana milk shakes, eating everything in sight. Nothing helps. I can’t gain an ounce.”

  “That’s not a bad thing—for a runner, at least. Listen, I know the last time we talked you weren’t much interested in cross-country.”

  “Yeah, two miles seems like an awful long way. Plus, we’re going at it pretty hard every day to get ready for basketball.”

  “I know. I just thought I’d run something by you. We have a three-way meet with Pompano and Palm Beach this afternoon at the Dubsdread Golf Course. Lindstrom and Demski are running pretty well, but after that we fall off bad. We could use a third man to finish maybe in the top ten to have a chance at winning this thing. What do you say?”

  “You really think I can race that far?”

  “You’ve been doing the San Romani workouts, right?”

  “Three days a week for most of the summer. And some jogging on my own.”

  “I think you would do fine. You just need to pace yourself. You can’t tear out in the first quarter mile like you do in the half. If you get into oxygen debt early, you suffer the whole rest of the way. In crew I have to drum that into our strokes all the time.”

  “I’d hate to miss our basketball training at the base. We’ve got less than a month until tryouts.”

  “It won’t take long. We’re driving over right after next period. Lenny’s taking his car and I’m driving, too. I’ll take you over and then drop you off at the gym afterward. What do you say?”

  “Okay, I guess so. Sure,” said Cassidy. “I can get a ride home with Stiggs.”

  “You have some shoes with you?”

  “Not running shoes.”

  “Hmmm. That could be a problem,” said Kamrad.

  “Not really. If it’s on the golf course, I’ll run barefoot.”

  * * *

  Cassidy had never seen so many skinny guys in one place in his life. Not that they all were. Both Pompano and Palm Beach had brought B teams, and Pompano even had a C team that boasted a few asthmatics and one “big-boned” kid. No one ever got cut from cross-country.

  Edgewater previously had just five runners, the minimum, though Cassidy made it six. Mr. Kamrad explained that you were allowed seven total, though only five scored. The last two could only push the other teams’ runners farther back.

  “Where are all the fences and hurdles and stuff?” said Cassidy as he warmed up with Demski and Lindstrom. “I thought that was what cross-country was all about.”

  “Nah, that’s in other c-c-countries. Here we just run around golf courses,” said Demski.

  “Heck, I think jumping over fences would be cool,” said Lenny Lindstrom.

  “Yeah, p-plus it would give you a second to catch your b-breath,” said Demski.

  “Well, I’ve run three or four miles in training, but I’ve never raced anything longer than a half mile. I’m not sure I can actually make it,” said Cassidy.

  “Oh, sure you c-can,” said Demski. “You just back off to a pace you can handle. It’s not that bad.”

  But it was. Everyone took off too fast, yelling and screaming like they were having a good time. That, Cassidy noticed, didn’t last very long.

  Why everyone thought it so important to sprint the first quarter mile he didn’t know, because the pace settled down to what felt like a crawl soon after that. They seemed to be in oxygen debt already. Everyone except the Mizner kid from Pompano, who just kept right on going. Cassidy saw him disappearing all alone over the rise at the third hole dogleg and thought, He’s still pretty darned good.

  There was a second group of six—including Demski—trailing Mizner by a hundred yards, then a bigger group, including Cassidy, another twenty yards back. The rasping all around him made Cassidy feel better, because it told him he wasn’t the only one suffering.

  The course was marked by an orange plastic tape staked into the ground around the outskirts of the golf course. After what seemed like forever, they reached a group of coaches that included Mr. Kamrad, who was holding a stopwatch. Cassidy saw a handmade paper sign stuck into the ground that said 1/2 & 11/2 It took him a moment to figure out they were running a one-mile loop twice and finishing in the chute he had seen next to the starting line.

  As the group passed him, Mr. Kamrad was reading, “Two thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven . . .”

  Jeez, they were running pretty close to a five-minute pace. Cassidy remembered that Lenny Lindstrom, their best miler, had won some dual meets the year before in not much faster than five minutes. This was not exactly the nature romp he was expecting.

  He didn’t see how the group in front could be keeping up that much faster a pace than his group, and sure enough, in a quarter of a mile he noticed that they seemed to be coming back a little bit. He was starting to feel it—for one thing, it was a hot afternoon—but Cassidy had finally settled into the pace and was getting more comfortable with it. When no one else in his bunch seemed particularly ambitious, Cassidy lit out for the group in front, and by the time they got around to the starting line at the clubhouse, he was working his way up through it. He had just caught up to Demski at the front as they passed by Ted Benz, the Palm Beach coach, who was reading the mile times off: “Five ten, five eleven, five twelve . . .”

  Cassidy was amazed. He would not have bet a dime that he could run a single mile this fast, and they were only halfway through this race.

  Ed looked over and seemed surprised to see him.

  “Good pace,” he said.

  “Should we. Go after him?” Cassidy said. On this long straightaway, uninterrupted by turns or hills, they could see Mizner, still smoothly striding a hundred yards ahead.

  “Not yet,” said Demski, who seemed to be laboring. Cassidy, on the other hand, didn’t feel any worse than he’d felt at the half-mile point.

  He remembered this stretch from the first lap—a long row of pine trees, a small pond, a huge clump of hibiscus hedge—and there was something about the familiarity that made it seem a little easier.

  They passed Mr. Kamrad again: “Seven forty-one, forty-two, forty-three . . .”

  He tried, but he couldn’t do the math. He was pretty sure they were on a steady pace and that it wasn’t much slower than a five-minute-mile pace. But Cassidy was getting impatient with Ed, who was showing no signs of wanting to run down Mizner. Cassidy glanced back and saw that they had twenty or thirty yards on the rest of the group now.

  “Okay, I’m. Going to. Give it. A try,” Cassidy said.

  Demski tried to give him a smile, but it was weak. He did manage a little wave.

  Cassidy set out, trying not to make up too much ground at once, and quickly perceived that Mizner was coming back to him. Mizner had gained most of his lead during the first half mile but then hadn’t increased it much. He was running quite confidently, though, not sneaking any looks back.

  Good, thought Cassidy, as he bore down all along the backstretch. It was all familiar now, a hole with a long narrow green and sand traps on either side, a big live oak next to the brick road that ran along the back side of the course. Cassidy loved running barefoot like this, like he had as a child playing tag in his grandmother’s front yard, or racing the rain down Rosedale Street.

  Though he was rasping in the air like everyone else, it did not seem desperate to him. He realized how hardened he had become from his summer interval workouts, and for the first time it occurred to him that he should have been up there running with Mizner all along.

  With less than a quarter of a mile to go, Cassidy was twenty yards behind. For the first time, Mizner turned around to see how far ahead he was. Even from twenty yards back, Cassidy could see the surprise on his face. Mizner put on a burst heading a
round the turn into the last straightaway to the chute, but after that Cassidy gained steadily on him. With a hundred yards to go, Cassidy launched into an all-out kick, but Mizner still reached the chute ten yards in front.

  The coaches tried to hurry them through the chute, but there was no need, really. Mizner was bent over at the waist, hands on knees, gasping. He held out a hand limply to Cassidy, who took it, likewise bent over and greedily sucking air.

  Mr. Kamrad walked up, holding his watch, looking somehow pleased and puzzled at the same time. Mizner had set a course record in 10:18. Cassidy was two seconds back.

  CHAPTER 41

  * * *

  BASKETBALL AGAIN

  For the first time in his life Cassidy didn’t bother to check the bulletin board in the gym. He was a returning starter from a final-four team. It was a far cry from those awful days in junior high when he’d stand blinking before a posted list that had just dashed his every hope.

  “Guess what?” said Stiggs, setting his tray down at lunch. “You made the team.”

  “Yeah,” said Randleman, right behind him. “We did, too, in case you were worrying about us.”

  “Any other surprises?” said Cassidy, wolfing down his Salisbury steak. He seemed to be constantly hungry these days.

  “Nope. Everyone’s back on, plus Ramsey Dulin, Jake Stuart, and Ralph Erickson,” Stiggs said, naming the three best JV guys from last year.

  “I just hope he has some serious drills in mind. It didn’t seem like everyone was this far out of shape last year,” said Cassidy.

  Stiggs and Randleman exchanged a glance. Stiggs was mangling the spout of his milk carton in the process of trying to get it open.

  “Just because you’re winning the line drills by half a court doesn’t mean everyone else is out of shape,” said Stiggs. “It only means that you’re a freak of nature.”

  “Yeah,” said Randleman.

  “Seconds,” said Cassidy, standing up with his plate.

  * * *

  Mr. Kamrad didn’t badger him about cross-country after basketball started. He kept his powder dry.

  On the third Friday in November, he got out his dry powder.

  “You mind?”

  Cassidy looked up, surprised. Mouth too full to speak, he gestured to the seat across from him. Mr. Kamrad put his tray down and sat. This was unusual. Most of the teachers ate in a separate, elevated area at the end of the cafeteria, with the exception of a few very young and wildly popular male teachers—of which Mr. Kamrad was one—who could occasionally be cajoled into dining at a table full of giggling girls.

  Cassidy was embarrassed that his mouth was so full he didn’t dare speak. Stiggs and Randleman had already taken their trays up, but Cassidy had gone back for thirds. It was spaghetti day.

  “Everything going okay with basketball?” Mr. Kamrad asked. Cassidy swallowed.

  “Yes, sir. Well, we’ve put in a different system from last year, but it’s going okay.”

  “Oh, yeah? Different how?”

  “I was the point guard last year. This year we’ve got a two-guard front. But it’s okay. Everyone who started is back but one, so we should be okay.”

  “Well, I know it’s a long shot, but I wanted to mention something to you, just in case.”

  Cassidy looked puzzled.

  “They’re having the regional cross-country meet this afternoon. It’s on the same course you ran before, at Dubsdread.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  When Mr. Kamrad saw that he didn’t turn it down out of hand, he got a little more animated.

  “It’s a big meet, more than twenty schools, but the best runner is still probably that kid from Pompano, that Mizner kid. The boy you almost ran down. Remember him?” As if he could forget.

  Well, there was no question that he was interested. He hadn’t done any intervals since basketball started, but he was running several miles of laps around the court every day before practice, sometimes at a very quick pace, depending on how he was feeling. There was also no question that he would like another crack at that kid, particularly now that he knew not to let him get so far ahead.

  Mr. Kamrad could see the wheels turning, so he said nothing and concentrated on his spaghetti.

  “What time is the race?”

  “It starts at four thirty. You’d have to miss basketball practice.”

  “What did Coach Bickerstaff say?”

  Mr. Kamrad made a little grimace. “I haven’t talked to him about it.”

  “No?”

  “I know missing basketball practice is a big deal, so I’m not telling you to do it or not to do it. It’s only one practice, but I can’t make the decision for you. You’ll have to talk to Coach Bickerstaff about it, plead your case. Then just see what he says.”

  “Wow. I think I know what he’ll say.”

  Mr. Kamrad smiled. Everyone knew that Bickerstaff had mellowed very little over the years, might have gone the other way, in fact.

  “Well, I just wanted to present the opportunity to you. You know, we don’t keep school records for cross-country because the courses are all different, but as far as I know, 10:20 is far and away the best time anyone at this school has ever run.”

  Cassidy nodded. Demski had told him the same thing.

  “I know how important basketball is to you, but giving up one practice before the season gets under way might be worth it to accomplish something really great.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyway, if you want to do it, the cars leave at three thirty. Talk to Bob, uh, Coach Bickerstaff. If you can work it out, meet us in the parking lot behind the gym.”

  * * *

  Coach Bickerstaff looked at him in disbelief. This was going to be worse than Cassidy had thought.

  “You want to run what?”

  “It’s the regional cross-country meet, more than twenty schools. Considering the race I ran earlier, I might be able to do pretty well.”

  “Well enough that it’s worth missing practice? Two thousand kids in this school and you’re one of twelve guys who get to play the most important sport in our school. And you want to miss practice to compete in a sport nobody ever heard of?”

  Cassidy looked down at his shoe tops. When he put it that way it did sound crazy. Bickerstaff, seeing that his point had struck home perhaps a little too forcefully, softened somewhat. Sitting back in his desk chair, he assumed a magnanimous expression.

  “All right, here’s the deal,” said the coach. “You can do it if you want to. I won’t stop you. But if you decide to go ahead and miss practice, you’ll lose your place on the starting team and have to work your way back up all over again.”

  Cassidy thought about it for a second and made up his mind instantly. Springing to his feet, he said, “Thanks, Coach! I won’t let you down!”

  And with that he cleared out as fast as he could before Bickerstaff had a chance to change his mind.

  CHAPTER 42

  * * *

  CROSS-COUNTRY CHAMPION

  This time it was different.

  He spotted Mizner while they were warming up.

  “Th-th-there he is,” said Demski

  “Saw him,” said Cassidy. He had spotted the blue-and-gold uniform with the golden tornado on the chest among the sea of colors all around them. There was no mistaking that stride. He was warming up apart from his teammates, who were all jogging along together.

  “Wh-what are you going to do?” asked Demski.

  “I don’t know. But I know I’m not spotting him two hundred yards this time,” said Cassidy.

  When Mizner bolted to the lead after the first quarter mile, Cassidy was no more than ten yards behind him. This time Cassidy wasn’t worried about what group he was in or who was in it. He only had eyes for Mizner out there sailing along in front. Everyone else could do whatever they wanted. Today he knew where the race was.

  There must have been some mistake at the half-mile marker, where Mr. Kamrad was reading off the times: “Tw
o twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . .”

  That couldn’t be right. Cassidy was feeling the strain, but this time he was mentally ready for it and it didn’t seem as scary. Mizner, like before, ran with that silky stride and did not look back. The second half of the first lap went quickly. Cassidy could hear no runners behind him, nor could he see anyone close when they went around a sharp turn.

  The mile splits also sounded crazy, but Cassidy now had to believe them: “Four fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two . . .”

  Mizner must have thought it sounded too fast, because he eased up some as they headed down the first long straightaway again. As he reached the long row of pines, he looked back finally but did not seem surprised to see Cassidy ten yards back, running easily. Instead, Mizner motioned to him, as if he had been expecting him.

  What’s this? Cassidy thought. But he poured it on a little and pulled up even.

  Mizner didn’t look over, just said, “Work. Together.”

  Cassidy thought about it. Some kind of trick, maybe? But he said, “Okay.”

  And so they ran like that, stride for stride, for most of the last mile of the race. Gasping with effort but showing no signs of real fatigue, they went through the midpoint again, where Mr. Kamrad tried to hide his surprise at seeing them together. He read off the times: “Seven fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . .”

  This time Cassidy was more prepared to interpret the in-between time. All he had to remember was that at 10 flat pace they would pass the one-and-a-half-mile point in 7:30. But they were way under that. Was it possible to keep this up?

  Mizner ran so beautifully that running beside him seemed to make Cassidy’s stride smoother. And running side by side was mentally easier than hanging on from behind or trying to run from the front. Cassidy had not run many real distance races, so he was not sure how this whole thing was supposed to play out. Were they just going to run across the finish line together?