Latent Runner

By Billy Keefe

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Start and stop.

My father died this month, April.

I have tried to write down what has happened since, and failed.

So I thought I would start writing again with something simple and off task.

• • •

I loved track, but hated track practice. I was a thrower and every practice began with a one mile run to the armory near our school. I would always find some cohort, usually another thrower, to duck down a side street with on the first half of the run and wait for the other athletes to come back from the armory and join up with them on the trip back.

But one day the other throwers were absent, and I was forced to hide alone, which seemed shameful, or actually do the whole run. So, with snot running down my face and a sharp pang in my right side I ran the entire way to the armory. When I turned around I saw that I was the first girl to get there. Inspiration struck and I promised myself I would run the whole way back without stopping to jog, figuring I would be passed soon. When I reached the park next to my school the pang in my side screamed, tears welled up in my eyes, it was hard to see and hard to breath through the phlegm. I was alone, running in the park that bordered our high school, up hill. When my left foot fell I started chanting, "It takes," right foot, "some pain," left foot "I think," right foot, "I can." Then suddenly I saw the doors to the school gymnasium.

At the entrance stood the women's track coach. She looked at me with shock, then started saying, "Yes, yes, finish strong." I hadn't anticipated witnesses. Then some of the boys came down, they were saying "Keefe is first, look its Keefe!" Then, I heard it . . . "Hear comes Ekhardt."

Carrie Ekhardt, the girl who always did the right thing, the girl who had a solid B in every class. The girl who always ran the mile at meets, not because she was fast, but because she was consistent.

I did not turn to look, as I realized she was close enough that I could hear her breathing. I just started to sprint. Without form, without skill, arms flailing, head swinging wildly side to side, choking, burning. She sped up. I could only think of the time a neighborhood boy stole my bike when we were poor. How I ran after him without breathing, and with no shoes on, and almost caught him, before he pulled away from me. I held my breath and pounded my way to the door.

The track boys, our friends, started cheering. Chanting. Calling our names, laughing, hooting.

And I beat her. By a second at most, then I barfed. Our friend, Nick, who died a few months later put his hand on my back and said, "I have never seen you run that fast."

It was a cold, rainy day in a dying city in Upstate New York. No one really cared which one of us won, even Carrie. But it was me, it was me that won.

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Posted by mitzibel (Misty Nuckolls) on April 27, 2008 at 8:14 p.m. (Suggest removal)

Nice.

I'm sorry for your loss, and the resultant clusterfuck of emotions. Although I know it's going to be painful to read, because you're just that damn good, I look forward to reading the work that comes out of it.

Posted by RobMartin (Rob Martin) on April 28, 2008 at 3:56 p.m. (Suggest removal)

This is the first time I've read your blog. I rarely read anyone's blog. Even my sister's.

My dad died quite a few years ago...and I also ran track. I went out for track as a warm up for cross country.

Nine years later, I still think about my dad. He was very quiet, and I am not. He rarely opened up. I say too much, too often, too quickly.

My perception of him is that he thought a lot more about helping people, especially his kids, in simple but sacficial ways; more than I could really even understand. It was only when he was finally within a month of dying that he told me he loved me and was proud of me.

The older I get, the more I understand he dealt with the same pain, insecurity, frustration and temptation that most of us deal with.

I wish he could see my kids. I wish I could tell him personally why we moved to Lawrence. Geez - I'm starting to cry now just thinking about it and I'm at work.

Whether your relationship with your dad was good or not, I am really sorry. It is going to take time. Nine years and counting for me.

Posted by DOTDOT (anonymous) on April 28, 2008 at 3:59 p.m. (Suggest removal)

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