Weekly Short Story

"The Runner" by Ethan Rose

The hardness of the frozen ground bruised the soles of his tired feet, but failed to alter the runners pace. His feet moved him forward, relentlessly beating the trail of packed earth which threaded its way through the sparse patches of dirty snow which littered the ground. The pre-dawn air was sharp with cold, as sharp as the occasional rocks alongside the trail. The path itself was smooth, beaten down by countless runs along its length. Years ago the runner had meticulously combed all the rocks from its length. This was his race track, and he could not afford to have a stone turning under his foot, sending him to the ground in defeat. This morning run had been a ritual in his life since the race he’d won in high school, the race which ended at the railroad tracks ahead. Every year he repeated that race, and he has never lost yet.

He had always been the best at whatever he turned his hand to; he had to be, to prop up his ego. In high school, he wasn’t always the best. His chief rival, Joseph Blasco often took that honor. Joe had been a sarcastic kid with an attitude towards authority, always a disappointment because he was intelligent and well endowed, but used his gifts for rebellion. He had been a “B” student who should have got straight “A’s”, but was happier just doing enough to get by. None of this had bothered the runner though. What bothered him was that Joe was first string on the track team, while he was only second.

He reached the top of the first climb, successfully completing the opening stretch of the course. He was now approximately one hundred feet above the starting point, and a sixth of a mile along the track. The sun, just beginning to peek above the horizon, illuminated the wilderness around him. Blue spruce closed in, creating a silvery blue-green canopy to hide the sky. Huckleberry and buck brush crept closer to the trail. The condensing environment seemed to inspire a similar effect on his thoughts.

He had always been insecure, ever conscious of his unworthy. This was a condition he couldn’t stand. It tormented him, drove him in a relentless pursuit to prove his worthiness, to be the best.

The trail led him down a gentle incline into a peaceful dell. For all practical purpose it was his dell, just as the path he trod was his path. No one else ever came this way, except Joe, and he only appeared once a year.

Even though the path was his, he hated it. He never wanted to see it again, but he couldn’t afford to abandon it. It was the ball and chain of his life, just like his parents had been. They were always telling him what to do, not like parents do, but like a boss would, keeping him aware of his responsibilities. A boy doing the work of the man his father could not afford to hire. There was always work to do, work that never could be finished. There was just too much. Often he considered himself nothing more than a slave, endlessly laboring for the good of his parents. He wanted to leave them; he was desperate to escape. Since he was ten, he had counted the years until his eighteenth birthday, until he was legally a separate entity, able to roam the world a free man. But that had never happened. He became a slave to this morning run, and to fear.

The course began climbing out of the dell, stretching to new heights. This was where Joe had caught up with him. Neck to neck, stride for stride, they had climbed this rise, Joe mocking his desperate concentration with an egotistical grin, assured of his superiority and the inevitable proving of it. Joe was adept at that grin. He used it as a weapon to infuriate his rivals, teachers, and any figure of authority. He loved to break down people’s poise.

The spruce began to thin, imperceptibly increasing the light of the rising sun. With lungs laboring, he crested the rise. The path, sloping gently down, began a curve towards the left. Rounding the curve revealed a level, straight stretch.

Weary now with a run gone on too long; with a life gone on beyond the time it should sink into the relaxation before its end, he was reduced to forcing his legs into continuing their motion. He pulled will from his hatred at his inferiority, the same place he had always pulled the force to make himself the best in everything. A well fed ego provided the courage to interact with his peers. It rescued him from his personal closet. But being the best was a trap. He never had time to rest. There was always someone eager to cast him down from his pedestal.

Joe delighted in casting down heroes. Every year he strove to usurp the runner’s primacy, but he never fell. He couldn’t afford to fall. It would destroy him, turn him back into a social introvert, and bury him within the darkness of his thoughts...where he wandered now.

With slumped head and shaking legs, he reached the end of the straightaway. Joe had gained a yard on him by this point, so many winters ago. How many now he wondered. They had been seventeen at the time.

The course angled down now, and sharply to the right, following the mountain side. The spruce were left behind. There was only a rocky cliff face on his right, and a steep drop to his left. He was approaching the tracks. In his memory he could hear the mournful cry of the engine as it hurtled itself down the iron rails. He heard it every day, like the cry of his desperate soul. This is where he had put on a burst of speed and caught up with Joe. Side by side they had matched each other as the train moved relentlessly towards the intersection of the path. The tracks were in sight now, the ghost train of his memory just rounding the corner into view. With a Herculean effort he had pulled ahead of Joe and leapt the tracks mere inches in front of the passing train. For almost a minute he had stood there while the heavy wood and steel of the box cars charged by. Catching his breath, he reveled in the knowledge of his superiority. But when the train was past, Joe was nowhere in sight. The only sign of his defeat was a gory smear along the cross ties.

The runner stopped before the tracks. He never crossed them save once a year, and then, inches in front of a ghost train hungry for his soul. He glared at the tracks as he caught his breath. They were the symbol and means of his annual brush with death. He did some stretches before turning to face the walk home.

He sat in an old rocker on his porch as the sun departed for the day, watching the world change into a bleaker shade of gray. Alone in his secluded cabin, he awaited a challenge he knew would come tonight, as it always came on the anniversary of Joe’s death. He sat as if patiently composed for a long wait, his body at perfect rest, but it was only a façade hiding the turmoil of his anxiety. His mind raced with fear from thought to thought, desperately seeking an escape from the upcoming challenge with death. His thoughts fled endlessly with no hope of escape, like he must ever run to stay out of death’s reach. As the evening darkened and despair sank deeper into his being, he became aware of Joe’s youthful figure sitting across from him. His head jerked up, hands clenching the chair’s arms as adrenaline infused his body.

“Good evening,” Joe smiled coldly at him, but received no reply. “I see you are dressed for a run, do you wish to race me yet again?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Joe chuckled. “Of course not.”

“I’ll race you, like I always do, and I’ll win, as I have always won.”

“You’ll race the wind, a man with no dead weight binding him to the ground?” Joe laughed delightedly. “How fast can you run with feet that can feel the cold, the cold of night and the ice of age? Who will the train sweep away to hell tonight?”

With ire blazing in his eyes, the sixty eight year old runner stood up. “Let us see,” he said.

 

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