Racing the Rain (31 page)

“What does he think about this?”

“We don't know yet.”

“And Mr. Kamrad?”

“We don't know yet.”

She again looked for signs of teasing and saw none.

“I'm just wondering how you come up with these schemes.”

“Plans, not schemes,” he said. “Schemes connote something sneaky. This is a plan.”

“Yeah, and you think it's a good plan because . . .”

Cassidy offered her the last french fry. She shook her head and he popped it in his mouth and smiled.

“Because it worked once already,” he said, chewing happily.

C
assidy tried hard not to take grim satisfaction from the miserable fortunes of the basketball team.

“There's a word for that,” Trapper told him. “It's called ‘schadenfreude.' It means taking pleasure in someone else's pain. It's German.”

“Of course it is,” said Cassidy.

“How bad are they doing, anyway?”

“They lost to Hialeah by eighteen and Lake Worth—who're terrible this year—by ten. Then they went up to Orlando for a tournament and lost to Maynard Evans by thirty-six. But at least Evans is ranked.”

They were sitting on the old bench outside the Jupiter Hilton, waiting for Archie San Romani to call on the pay phone. Cassidy had never spoken to him before and was nervous to the point of fidgeting.

“You should really just relax, Quenton,” said Trapper. “He's the nicest guy in the world.”

As it turned out, he was at least the nicest guy in Kansas, though he told Cassidy he was thinking about moving to California.

“They say the weather is nice in the winter out there,” Archie said. “I don't know if that's true or not, but I bet it's better than it is here.”

“It's pretty nice down here, too, Mr. San Romani. I hope you can come down sometime. I know Trapper would be happy to see you. And I would, too.”

“Call me Archie. We've talked about a visit sometime. Maybe we can work it out.”

It turned out that San Romani had just sent his own son, Archie, Jr., off to the University of Oregon on a scholarship.

“He's going to be faster than his old man, looks like,” said Archie. “And with the guys Bowerman has out there, he's going to have to be. Heck, we've got a high school kid here in Kansas named Ryun who's under four already. The times are a'changin'. Literally. ”

“Yes, sir, I've heard that somewhere.”

“Now, Trapper tells me you had some trouble with basketball and you're ready to concentrate on track.”

“Yes, sir. It wasn't my choice exactly, but that's what I'm doing.”

“Okay, I think we can make it work pretty much like we did before. Trapper says Mr. Kamrad is in agreement. You'll run with the team, but Trapper will give you my workouts. Later, after the season starts, Trapper and Mr. Kamrad can switch back and forth with the supervising. Any of the other runners capable of tagging along with you?”

“Ed Demski says he wants to try. He's close to a two-flat half-miler. Maybe one or two other guys.”

“Okay, good. It's easier when you've got some company. Now, I understand you did some cross-country this fall. How did that go?”

“Well, I ran a three-way meet early in the season and finished second in 10:20 flat. Two miles, pretty flat. That was my first cross-country race and the first time I ever seriously raced anything longer than a half mile. Then basketball practice started and I had to concentrate on that. But I was able to get out of practice one afternoon to run the regional meet. I won that.”

“In what?”

“In 9:42. It was the same course, two miles and flat.”

“Okay, good. That was all that summer training you did, I'm sure. Even though you were doing it for basketball, shape is shape. I remember talking to Trapper after you won that second race. And I'm going to tell you now what I told him then. I know you consider yourself a half-miler like your friend Ed, and I know that when we worked together before in junior high school you had good success at that distance. I also know how dedicated you were to hoops.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How fast did you run in junior high?”

“It was 2:03.7. That was in the ninth grade.”

“Okay, Quenton, here it is: I think I know what you are.”

“Sir?”

“I think you are a miler.”

C
assidy, Demski, and Lenny Lindstrom waited by the high-jump pit, making desultory attempts at stretching. Trying to sound nonchalant as they chatted, they were in fact nervous as chickens.

Trapper didn't look anything like a coach, dressed in his usual cutoff fatigues and combat boots with no socks, but he was carrying a clipboard like a coach and was brooking no nonsense like a coach, so they hopped up, shushed, and gathered around him.

“Okay, guys, Mr. Kamrad is not allowed to be here because track doesn't officially start until March. So you're stuck with me for the duration. Archie wants to start off with some nice easy miles for the first couple of weeks. He doesn't want you racing each other in these workouts, or doing any sprinting at the end of runs, just keep together and keep it conversational the whole way. Any questions?”

“Mr. Nelson, who is Mr. San Romani anyway?” Lenny asked.

“He's a friend of mine who won the NCAA mile and who also ran in the Olympics.”

“Oh.”

“He also is a person who, when he was eight years old, had his leg mangled when he was run over by a truck and almost had it amputated. Most people didn't think he'd walk again, and most people were wrong.”

“Oh.”

“He has also helped a number of young runners over the years achieve some great things, including his own son, and he has been kind enough to offer to help us out here.”

“Oh.”

“Okay, so we've done this before with Quenton and it has worked out very well. Mr. Kamrad and I will stick to the schedules that Archie sends us unless unforeseen things come up, such as injuries and so forth. And that reminds me, we need to know when something like that happens to you, like if you're coming down with a cold, or your knee is sore, anything like that. Don't try to make us guess when something's wrong with you.”

They all nodded, jiggling their legs, impatient.

“Okay, today is simple: twice around the lake, as easy as you can. Then do our regular calisthenics routine on the infield, which will take about ten minutes, then a mile of striders on the infield. And that's it, take it in. Cassidy knows the calisthenics routine. What you do today will be your warm-up routine every day from now on.”

“That's it? Two point two miles and some jumping jacks?” said Lenny.

“That's right, Len.” Cassidy chuckled. “A workout even you can handle. Enjoy it while you can.”

“Okay, I'll leave you to it. I have to get back to my camp, so I won't be here when you get back. I'll see you tomorrow, same time, same station, and I'll want a full report on how it went. I'll keep notes on each day's workout to send to Mr. San Romani.”

“Uh, Mr. Nelson?”

“What is it, Lenny?”

“I think I have an injury.”

“Is that right, Lenny?”

“Yes, sir. My feelings have been hurt by Mr. Cassidy.”

“Very funny. Now take off, you characters.”

* * *

The pattern was familiar to Cassidy. In the early going it was overdistance, usually three to five miles, occasionally longer. There was always an easy two-mile warm-up, which they did around the lake in back of the school, then calisthenics, a mile of striders, then the main workout. After three weeks, just as it was starting to get monotonous, they began doing longish intervals every other day. It started with repeat miles, then three-quarter miles, half miles, and quarters, sometimes in combinations so complicated that Trapper, if he wasn't staying for the whole workout, would have to write it all down on an index card for them. There was always an easy distance day following intervals.

If Trapper couldn't be there at all, Cassidy would find the card tucked into a corner of the gym's bulletin board. On interval days he usually carried Mr. Kamrad's stopwatch, and they tried to follow the program to the letter. Cassidy and Demski usually finished together, with Lindstrom a few seconds behind.

Several of the other runners tried to give it a go. Jarvis Parsley lasted the longest. By that time their long runs were up to six miles, and they were sometimes doing six half-mile repeats on interval days. Jarvis lasted four days.

Never more than a whippet anyway, Cassidy began to lose weight despite eating everything in sight. He had lost the food squeamishness of his childhood and now gobbled even the celery in his mother's pot roast, not because he liked it but because he didn't want to take the time to pick it out. At a little over six feet tall, he weighed 139 pounds.

He still hung around with Stiggs and Randleman, but without basketball in common it was more like the old days, when they were on the bus and he wasn't. This time, though, theirs was not a happy bus. Three fourths of the way through the season, they were 4–14, and two of their victories were by two points. Cassidy listened to their woes and tried not to partake in schadenfreude.

But now he was spending more time with Demski and Lindstrom, whose sense of humor Cassidy had never fully appreciated. It reminded him of the characters in
Catch-22.
The three of them started getting together on weekends to do easy runs on the beach, or on the Jeep trails west of town when the sands were packed down enough from the rain. Sometimes Trapper ran with them, but usually not the whole way.

“You guys are getting out of my league, even on easy days,” he said, but with a trace of pride.

As their fitness grew, so did their excitement. They talked at lunch about training theories, workout times, upcoming meets.

“I don't see what the big deal is,” Stiggs said at lunch one day. “Basketball players do wind sprints and line drills every single day. Shape is shape.”

“It's nothing like that,” Cassidy said. “What we do as a sport is considered punishment in other sports.”

“Awww,” said Stiggs.

“I don't know what line d-drills are,” said Demski, “but I know wind sprints, and quarter-mile repeats are a d-different animal.”

“Yeah,” said Lindstrom. “And that animal is the bear.”

“Tell you what, smart guys . . .” said Stiggs.

“Uh-oh,” said Randleman.

“. . . let's do a little race before practice today,” said Stiggs.

“N-n-no way. You can't be serious,” said Demski.

“Yes, he is. He's serious as a heart attack,” said Randleman.

“Stiggs, don't you want to think this over?” said Cassidy.

“Heck no. I'm tired of hearing about all this interval this and lactic acid that. We've been going an hour and a half every day, plus games, since mid-November. We have it just as tough as you guys and we never say boo about it. I say we do a quarter mile around the track, winner take all.”

“Take all what?” said Cassidy.

“Bragging rights. Basketball guys versus track guys. Losers have to shut up about how tough they've got it. Winners can talk all they want.”

“Count me out,” said Randleman. “Stiggs, you are crazy and you are on your own.”

“Fine by me,” said Stiggs, sticking out his pointy little chin.

“I still don't believe you're serious, but if you are, tell you what we'll do. You can have Lenny. He's a two-miler and he's the slowest of the three of us, no offense, Lenny,” said Cassidy.

“None taken. Only because it's true.”

“A quarter mile, one circuit around the track, three o'clock this afternoon, Stiggs versus Lindstrom. Mr. Wind Sprints versus a guy who's been doing workouts written by an NCAA champion miler,” said Cassidy.

“Wait. What?” said Randleman. “I thought Trapper Nelson was coaching you.”

“He holds the stopwatch. Mr. San Romani sends us the workouts,” said Lindstrom.

“San-who?”

“San Romani. He was an NCAA champion in the thirties,” said Cassidy.

“Oooooh, scary. Back in the thirties, you say? I bet they were blazing back then!” said Stiggs.

“Stiggs . . .” said Randleman.

“Three o'clock, hoss. Our guy will be there, dressed out and ready,” said Cassidy.

“You don't want in on this, Cassidy?” said Stiggs.

“Oh, please,” said Cassidy.

“Suit yourself.”

“I believe Mr. Lindstrom can represent us adequately,” said Cassidy, gathering up his tray.

* * *

Cassidy had forgotten that Stiggs, with six and a half feet of elbows and knees, looked hilarious running all out. Though coordinated on the basketball court, at full stride he looked like an enraged waterfowl in strap-on glasses. It was all Cassidy could do to clear the tears of laughter from his eyes so he wouldn't miss anything.

Lenny, too, had always been an unlovely runner. Skinnier even than Stiggs—and a foot shorter—his thin arms and legs were all over the place and his head bobbed on a neck that featured a well-defined Adam's apple. Cassidy called him the Human Sewing Machine. But he had been running track for four years now and had grown more or less comfortable with his awkward style. When in shape, he could run surprisingly close to his top speed for a long way.

And so the race resembled a pair of broken wind-up toys going at each other hammer and tongs, except that Lenny pulled steadily away from Stiggs by running flat out from the start. Halfway through the back straightaway, Stiggs, seeing how utterly defeated he was, slowed to a walk, then jogged across the infield almost in time to be there when Lenny crossed the finish line, arms raised in triumph.

“Sixty-three point two!” called Cassidy, looking at Mr. Kamrad's stopwatch. “Way to go, Leonard!”