The 2 Mile

Seven of the runners took their positions along the curved line at the bottom of the 100 yard dash. The longest race of the day began where the shortest one ended. At twice the length of the race closest to it in distance. Beginning with the 100, to the 220, each subsequent race doubling its distance thereafter. To the 440 or quarter mile, to the half mile, to the mile. Which was then eclipsed by its own size again, in the distance of the 2. 1

And whereas the mile, at half the distance, had been running high school tracks that spring in quarter splits of 66 seconds, the 2 mile had been hitting quarter splits of 68.2

Thanks mainly to a rising runner out of Preston. Who’d set a new local record of 9:03:24 minutes, earlier in the season. Jeff Taylor. Here though, at the Preston regionals, there would be none of the season’s rivals to challenge him. Everyone in attendance knew he would be racing the clock. And knew he was ready to break the 9 minute mark.3

Standing in lane one, Jeff began to bounce on the balls of his feet. Not from butterflies but impatience. He wanted the country picnic over and the step up to the capital finals. As quick as he could make it. As he bounced he smiled over at the six competitors in lanes 3 through 8.4

Jeff wore the Preston colors. A white jersey with the green banner stripe. With green track shorts and green spikes. And the Preston ring. Gold with a green stone.5

He had a lanky build with wide shoulders and curly red hair. And carried a white handkerchief in his left hand during each race. To wipe the spittle from his mouth. The handkerchief had developed into a symbolic gesture over the course of the year. He had a fast natural kick for a distance runner. And had taken to dropping the white handkerchief at the moment he would open into his sprint.6

In fact the Preston coach had decided that the strength of Jeff‘s kick was the key to his breaking the 9 minute barrier. Jeff instinctively liked to open with roughly 110 yards remaining. Once he felt the lean into the short second last corner before the home stretch. For the last two weeks coach Stevens had put him through a regimented drill of repeated sprints from the 110 mark. If Jeff could open and stay open from that distance, he could shave four seconds from his time.7

The starting official removed the gun from its case and took his location near the curved line and the seven runners. Lane 2 was empty. From a late scratch. Two minutes passed as the official and runners waited for the substitute entry.8

A third minute ticked away when a slight boy in a grey t-shirt, baggy gym shorts and canvas sneakers shuffled up into the lane. Long straight black hair touched his thin shoulders. A tensor bandage wrapped around his left knee was held by two mismatched pins. He was a Mohawk native student from an area reserve.9

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Jeff Taylor, sizing the boy up, broke into a smirk. He then spread his white handkerchief out between the fingers of both hands. And said, “Hey, Wounded Knee. I surrender.” Before doubling over in a fit of laughter. The Mohawk boy blinked.11

The official called the runners to their marks. The gun went off and Jeff burst straight into the lead. He needed to be clear of the pack. He couldn’t risk getting trapped or tripped up among second raters.12

From lane 2, next to Jeff, the Mohawk boy had somehow fallen in behind him. At the three-quarter mark of the first lap Jeff had opened a 5 stride lead on the group. Except for the young Mohawk who was still a step behind him. Jeff looked back and grinned, judging the little Indian to last two more laps at this pace.13

The first lap came through in 67 seconds. 8 quarter splits at 67 would easily bring the time in at 8:53:00, clearly under the 9 minute mark. But Jeff hadn’t trained for 67 quarters. Nearing the end of the second lap Jeff had increased his lead to 9 strides with the Mohawk boy still the step behind him. Jeff went through at 66.14

At the three-quarter mark of the third lap Jeff glanced back over his shoulder. The young Mohawk was still there. Still one stride back. Jeff scowled at him. The boy blinked. Jeff had had enough and stepped up the pace at the 200 mark. And came through in 65.15

At the end of the sixth lap nothing had changed. Other than the pack falling half a lap behind. Jeff was still out in the lead. With the Mohawk stuck a stride behind him. Laps 4 through 6 went 67, 68, 69. Not what Jeff had planned.16

As he crossed over the curved line at the end of the sixth lap Jeff caught a glimpse of coach Stevens raising an upturned hand. Jeff thought the last two laps had been slower. But he didn’t feel right bringing the pace back up again. He knew his timing was off. The combined splits had been too uneven. Something had gone wrong.17

In his worry over the last two laps coming in slow, Jeff pressed lap 7 harder than he needed. And came through in 66, as the bell for lap 8 sounded. All he had to run now was a solid last lap. 18

But he hadn’t run his race. The familiar light reserve in his legs was no longer there. And the Indian boy was still one step behind him. He no longer needed to glance back. He could hear the pad of the sneaker after each click of his spike. Locked in the same stride. As though they were frozen still. 19

At the final 110 mark Jeff let go of the handkerchief. But it refused to fall. Catching instead underneath his ring. Startled, Jeff wrung his hand, faltering half a stride in the final turn. As the Mohawk boy stepped out beside him. While in the bleachers lining the home stretch, the fans began to rise and shout.20

But the boy had no natural kick. The handkerchief fell to the track as Jeff began to inch ahead. The last 80 yards were quite awkward. Jeff‘s legs had turned to rubber and there was a wobble in his stride. The boy’s eyes were turned down in slits. His mouth had pulled far to one side and his head was too high.21

Jeff came through in 68. Shattering his record by 7.24 seconds. Going notably under 9 minutes, in 8:56:00. But the boy had come in at 69 seconds. And had collapsed in a small heap in the grass on the infield. A group of surprised onlookers began to draw towards him. His burning lungs heaved for oxygen. Like a fish out of water.22

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The fans in the bleachers remained standing before making their way down to the track and the exit. One of the last to leave was a man with long grey hair and a weathered face. He wore a faded canvas jacket. Full of little burn holes.24

And passed silently through the activities of the young athletes on the infield unnoticed. Towards a grey primered pickup parked on the side street. In the bed of the ghost like pickup sat a rusted mig welder. 25

His thick hands worked absent mindedly inside the jacket pockets as he neared the light truck. Opening the unlocked door, key still in the ignition, the old man nodded slowly to himself, whispering. “He will need the right training shoes. Then this time next year, his own pair of the spikes.” 26