Hell of a Race

With a runner negotiating with his maker on his heels, this author gets an ungodly gift when they cross the finish line.

Illustrations by Simon Moreton

High school cross country attracts all kinds of people. There are the hardcore racers, with shorts that disappear under their pinnies and chunky watches with a button for each stat the watch tracks. There are beefy off-season football players running in long basketball shorts, trying to swagger their way to alpha dominance while being consistently beaten by dudes who weigh as much as their football pads. There are the non-athletes, hanging out, enjoying the sun or loathing the rain, just trying sports on for size.

I was the hobbyist, the middle-of-the-pack runner — respectable, but I was never a serious competitor, mostly because homework was always more important.

There were a few runners I met who defied all of these cross-country archetypes. I raced against the strangest by far in the fall of my junior year. The meet was at a sprawling private school, the 5K route only one lap: a loop starting and ending in a soccer field, twisted out of shape in between…