10K.

Dungey, Chris

On the morning of Hector Fritch's first race, his son Wes woke him up on the couch. After five months of sobriety and three months of jogging, Hector had begun running. Not yet accustomed to immediate alertness, he tossed the quilt back and swung his feet to the cold carpet. Late October already. There weren't many amateur races left to enter. But Hector had begun to feel like an athlete. He read the schedule in a copy of Michigan Runner. He wanted to give it a try.

"What time is it?"

Wes leaned into the kitchen where he could see the stove clock. "Almost eight, like you said."

"Good. Good. But we've gotta get moving." Fritch stood up. He slowly stretched his fingertips to the floor, a maneuver he could not have managed when he was still drinking. "Mom gone already?"

"Yup," the boy said. He came back into the front room to turn on the television. "Still don't know why I have to go."

Hector quick-stepped down the hall to the bedroom. He'd finally abandoned the bed after waking twice in the restless night. Most of the time he didn't sleep with Gwen now because she was getting ready to move out. She probably had a boyfriend. His running shorts, anklets, and a long-sleeved t-shirt were already laid out. Not too heavy, but enough to keep him warm when he started to sweat. The weather was supposed to be cool and drizzly. He carried his things into the bathroom.

"I can't afford a sitter," he called down the hallway. "A couple more years, dude. Anyway, Grandpa's coming to take pictures. We'll eat afterward and you can spend the night with them."

The boy didn't say anything.

"So, Mom had breakfast shift?" Hector asked. "She say when she'd be done?

"I don't know," Wes said. "She got all ready. She put her uniform in a bag. She had to study for accounting first with Diane."

A cold thickness squeezed Fritch's voice. "Yeah? Well, did you have any breakfast?"

"Some cereal."

"OK." Fritch peed then tugged up some fresh underwear. He adjusted the crotch to make sure nothing would chafe. "OK, then. Listen, can you put some toast in for me? Pour us a tall OJ for the road."

Again, Wes did not reply, but Fritch heard the refrigerator door open. The lever of the toaster ratcheted down. "You want butter?"

"How about some peanut butter? Thanks."

Fritch had done the carb loading thing last night; three plates of spaghetti and sauce. He didn't know if it would help or not. Maybe that was more for marathoners anyway. He had no idea how fast he might be. He had trained up to eight miles so he knew he could do six. He'd done the interval training. Well, some interval training up at one of the Lapeer high-school tracks. A few 100 meter dashes with incomplete recovery. Some 220s. He would soon find out what he had.

Fritch wore a new warm-up suit; windbreaker and nylon pants over his shorts and tee. He took a large container of sports drink from the fridge. Wes packed pajamas and underwear into a Star Wars backpack. They drank their juice and hustled out to the Chevette, bringing the toast along on a paper plate.

"Why do they call it a 10K?" Wes fiddled with the radio to get away from NPR.

"Stands for kilometers, buddy. Aren't they pushing the metric system on you at school?"

The boy wasn't really interested in pop music yet so he turned the volume down. "I'm not sure how far that is, though. There's a chart in my math book. Why don't they just say ten miles. Or five?"

Fritch had to think about that one. He drove the back way from Lapeer to Celeryville. "Ten miles might've been too far and five miles too short," he said. He munched more of the peanut butter toast. He wasn't going to worry about the fat today. "A 10K is a tad over six miles. It'll be plenty for me."

The drive took fifteen minutes. Some sprinkles dotted the windshield. As Fritch rolled into his old home town, wet leaves were fluttering down. He went up Main Street, past the old house he and Gwen bought when they were first married. "You remember that place?"

"Yup," Wes said. "We drive by every time. One big heat register in the living room floor."

The race headquarters was set up in the parking lot of the City offices at the end of Main. If he could get there. Fritch had to detour because orange saw-horses were being set up. Some village workers piled into their truck and roared off to close more of the race route as Fritch turned around in a driveway. Nice overtime. He found a parking spot two blocks back the way they'd come.

Wes carried the quart of Gatorade. They saw other runners warming up. Some loped or sprinted toward them on the sidewalk and in the street. Fritch paused again to stretch. He stepped off into someone's yard as an older woman jogged by. Wes got out of the way.

"You can beat her." The boy grinned when he caught up.

"Don't assume." Fritch lifted each leg in turn, swinging his knees out to loosen his thigh muscles. The woman, a single gray braid bouncing on the back of her Gore-Tex jacket, seemed to have very little body fat.

Closer to the staging area, he spied his father approaching, a plume of pipe smoke drifting into the heavy air. "There's Gramps."

"Whatta you want me to do with this?" Wes held out the Gatorade.

"Just hang onto it for now." Fritch eyed the glowering skies, but the drops were few and scattered.

"Big day, ay son?" his father said. "Are you the pit crew?" He gripped Wes by his collar and pulled him into a hug.

"I guess so."

"Where do you want me?" Mr. Fritch turned to Hector.

"Yeah, what I'm thinking--you should shoot the start, then maybe drive out to Summers Road. There are some hills and then one coming up to the railroad bridge."

Mr. Fritch took a last puff of the aromatic pipe then tapped it out on the curb. "Well, if they let me get in there. Might be blocked off. Or, we can circle and get to it from Attica Road. We can hike up there, can't we, buddy?" He nudged Wes. "You won't beat us there, will you?"

Fritch snickered. "That's highly doubtful. If I go out too quick, I'll be struggling by then."

Mr. Fritch lifted the camera and took a shot of Wes with the Gatorade. "They've got a course lay-out posted by Town Hall. After the tracks, you've got another long downhill back into town. It's a good stretch where you can recover."

"I hope so." Fritch resumed the march toward the staging area.

"Let's go find a good spot, sport." Mr. Fritch put the pipe away and advanced the film.

Fritch handed Wes his warm-up jacket and stepped out of the shiny pants. "Just hang on to these. And I'll have a drink of that when I see you. Don't guzzle it all. Can you run alongside?"

"I'll try," Wes said.

"Good luck, son." They shook hands. Then, with a hand on the boy's shoulder, Mr. Fritch angled them across the street. A small crowd of family and friends was assembling up at the corner and along Capac Avenue, the main drag of Celeryville's business section.

Fritch collected his number at the registration table. Fie pulled his souvenir event tee over his own shirt then pinned the number to the front. He stretched some more while waiting in the queue to use the Porta-Potti. As he took his turn, heart-rate quickening, someone on a bullhorn gave the first command for runners to assemble at Start/Finish. He hustled through the City Hall parking lot. Halfway up Capac Avenue, he joined the throng of racers which flexed, twisted, and wriggled behind a strand of police tape.

Fritch found a spot in the middle of the pack. The field did not appear to be very large. Perhaps the weather or the lateness of the season had held the entries down. Or, runners from the Flint area were waiting for Halloween races next week. There might be sixty racers, maybe a few more, Fritch guessed. He looked around for recognizable faces but saw none. Maybe one guy from Lapeer he'd seen at the track. No former classmates, that he could tell. Up at the front of the field, the young and swift tensed against the ribbon. Since the race was sponsored by Celeryville High Athletic Boosters, it looked like track and cross-country members expected to dominate. Fritch didn't have time to estimate who else might be in his own 30-35 bracket. The starter's gun cracked with cap-gun sparks in the gray air. Everyone surged forward behind the kids.

He did go out too quickly. He knew he could get in trouble being too competitive but stayed with the runners on either side, unwilling to give way so soon. Some runners passed on the far outside and near the curb on the inside. Several cameras flashed at them. They turned onto Fairgrounds Street, through an intersection blocked by a squad-car. Customers in a breakfast diner gawked. More curious folk stood outside the Eagles lodge next to the Grand Trunk tracks. They had to go way out into the countryside before recrossing. Would be cool to look down on a train.

He tried to ease his pace. That older woman with the braid and a late-twenties-something fellow had the same idea so they stayed together. It looked like maybe twenty-five or thirty others already stringing out up ahead. Another police car led the way, its lights strobing. The kids would soon leave the fairgrounds behind. Fritch began to count cadence in his head.

They went past side streets where he had delivered the Pontiac newspaper in seventh grade. Bicycle through the first snow, cursing the wind. Not so bad at the moment. At their backs in this direction. The old roller rink fell away on their right. Nothing in his calves and ass could ever hurt as much as that first time. Before the next turn, he felt comfortable with his respiration. It looked like this wasn't going to be a total disaster. He edged ahead of the familiar puffing on either side. He focused on a tall, lumbering man wearing a baseball cap about twenty yards ahead. Too big for this. Offensive lineman, probably, a few years ago. Fighting the overweight. Don't I know it, brother. But not good for those knees. Pay for it someday.

They turned west. Wow, the flashers and the kids were already beyond the waste settling ponds for the pickle factory. Now some kind of chemistry flooded Fritch's brain. Not euphoria, exactly. Call it great well-being. There was the two-mile mark and no stress whatsoever. He should pick up the pace, try to do something. Get everything out.

Not too far to Summers Road. Maybe that gravel surface would slow the leaders. But probably not. He closed in on the big dude. The older gal off his right shoulder came along. She must want him, too. Maybe get both of us. Well, let's both get him first, grandma!

A quick glance. The man's scowl jowly as he began to labor. A light breeze rattled some standing field corn as they made the pass, leaning onto the pitted back-road. There you are. Fritch felt the wind and spatters of chill rain, not unwelcome. The woman was exhaling more audibly, blowing every fourth stride like Hector. Her foot-pads seemed to tuck in behind him, letting him break the air. But those delicate squishes soon fell back a ways. At the three-mile mark he sensed a solitude. He'd put himself alone with the sighing, shedding maples on either side of the road. Down one hill then back up another, then a gentle incline reached toward the grade crossing. As Hector pounded closer, the gathered friends and loved-ones at the top included Wes and Mr. Fritch. Others had guessed it might be a good spot for photos. A race official waited, studying his stop-watch. Wes came down toward Hector.

The kid was pretty quick, turning to match Hector's pace on the inside. The hand-off of the Gatorade was smooth enough. Hector gulped, chinking his teeth.

"How'm I doin'?" he croaked.

"That guy's tellin' everybody," the boy panted, reaching to reclaim the jug.

"Kay, thanks. See ya at the finish."

Mr. Fritch's camera popped several times. Hector hoped he'd gotten the drink exchange.

"Seventeenth guy. 30:41, at four miles," the race official spoke as Fritch crossed the tracks again.

Jesus, I'm gonna die, he thought. His jogging miles were down to about 8:15. Not terrific, except considering his recent physical deterioration. This, though, was crazy. The turn back toward town was just down the other side of the grade.

At the top of the long descent of Attica Road, he counted the runners he could still see. Looked like six or seven. Maybe a few he could catch. The police car was no longer in sight. He couldn't help extrapolating, though you couldn't just divide and multiply. Other factors would enter the equation. He was way ahead of his training and there was still the long stretch up 4th Street. Figure in that slight elevation. Actually had to fight gravity right here, his shins feeling the downhill acceleration, his arms getting heavy. Should have saved something. Where's that chemistry? Gone to his gut now, that spaghetti just beginning to churn. He wished Gwen would have showed up. At least for the finish.

Wasn't her fault. He started all that open marriage business when he was still drinking. She was just too good at it. And recovery could be difficult for others. They've accommodated your bullshit for so long. Don't necessarily want to turn everything around. New you not so much fun. A bummer, even, at times. Drag her down. Proud of him at first--but now hold on a minute, sweetie. Hours jogging. Fad diets. Oh, come on baby. It's raining! One obsession replacing another. Don't expect me to just ... She was still his friend, though, right? This, his first race? Well, she probably needed all the waitress hours she could get. Community college and not trying to take everything he owned. Not yet, anyway.

At the bottom of the hill, he got around another guy who seemed to be about his own age. They swept onto a short length of Black's Corner's Road. Ahead, up 4th Street, more spectators urged them on, or paused in their yard work, piles of wet leaves at the curb. There weren't any more targets of opportunity, Fritch didn't think. Someone's darkened shirt a block ahead with seven blocks to go. But now he had company off his right elbow again. As good a reason as any for some kind of kick. His lungs were giving him a taste of pennies as the older woman appeared in his peripheral vision.

"Time to go," she rasped.

"Huh?"

"C'mon, push me!"

Hector lengthened his strides. This was the reason for interval work and he hadn't done enough. Even more people on the sidewalks. Some applause. Oxygen debt you were supposed to be ready for. Get the arms out and pull. She eased ahead, the braid darkened, heavier. He sucked in what he could and quit thinking. They sprinted, leaning onto Main Street. A crowd of recovering competitors with drinks and disaster capes hollered encouragement. The finish-line tape was long down, snapped and scrawling a yellow signature between the puddles and flattened cups. Officials held out the numbered Popsicle sticks, cheering them home.

Hands on his knees, he didn't try to speak for the first minute. One of the race volunteers draped a reflective blanket over his shoulders. Wes hustled up with the rest of the Gatorade.

"Nice job, Dad." The boy patted the shiny material. "But that lady got ya."

Fritch laughed, satisfaction and relief washing through him. "She wasn't the only one, buddy." He began to straighten. He looked at the Popsicle stick. 26th. Right in the middle of the field. If he was the 16th guy, then ten women must have finished ahead of him.

"You did good," Mr. Fritch said. "Hell, I couldn't walk that far."

Behind them, more cheers went up for finishing runners. The crowd swelled as the race neared completion. On the front porch of City Hall, a lectern and microphone had been wheeled out. Medals and ribbons were being arranged on a card table. With seven age groups, male and female, it looked like half of the small field would receive medals. Dare he to hope?

"Did you see your mom anywhere?" Now Fritch looked around.

"Naw." Wes looked at his feet. "We're gonna eat there, aren't we?"

Fritch felt the euphoria begin to ebb. A steadier drizzle had begun. "We'll see, buddy. We'll see what Gramps wants to do." He pulled the boy tight to his dripping cape. "I wanta wait a bit and hear who won."

Mr. Fritch pulled a nylon hood over his head and tucked the camera under the parka. The race director was already speaking from the podium, even as the last stragglers gasped over the line. He eyed the skies as more wet leaves swirled onto the crowd. Hector lifted his blanket and pulled Wes under it.

The awards were given in reverse order. Both the men's and women's 58-and-over needed only two medals. Of all those kids who finished up front, it appeared to Fritch that some were going to go home empty-handed though they had finished better overall. The lady who had shadowed him throughout before getting around at the end took first place in the 50-58 women's category. He found himself holding his breath, the problem of where they might eat adding to the tension. Then Wes was pounding him on the back as his name was called for third place. "Way to go, Dad!"

He headed to the podium. There was some light applause. He heard his name shouted a few times. Someone must have recognized him. Maybe they could try the new Mexican place. Or, his dad always liked the hamburgers at Ray's Tap and Grill. They could walk to either place. Might be crowded at the lunch hour with runners and their war stories. He'd won a medal and the endorphins were still glowing. He didn't want to see that Gwen's car wasn't at Titus Family Restaurant. He didn't want anyone to see it.