I Want to Show You More (9780802193742) Page 3

  Statue-free. These races do not exist anymore. Only the aged remember the days when we could run without a statue, or when people admitted to wishing they could run without one. Now, almost everyone is so damn proud of their pieces of stone and metal. They buy thousand-dollar custom carriers for them, run soft dust cloths over the smooth marble or steel or granite. Some people sleep with their statues, or set them up in their living rooms and tell great winding lies about the way they acquired such cunning pieces of art. They can’t get away with these stories in the presence of another runner. We all know how you got your statue, bub: U.S. Priority Mail, same as the rest of us.

  I push my way back to the guy holding the Clearance sign and wedge in beside the Whistler, who is smacking his lips. His spine is bent like a wire hanger. His statue is so small it’s zipped all the way inside his Camelbak. A clear straw from the pack snakes up over his shoulder like an oxygen tube.

  Before the gun, the race directors stage a military ceremony in honor of the soldiers who fought in the Battle of Chickamauga, the Confederacy’s last big win. The start line is beside a grove of trees stuck through with ramrods. These trees look like acupuncture patients. Rookie soldiers forgot to remove the ramrods before firing. Each ramrod equals one dead Rebel. Some of the trees have embedded projectiles—shells, canisters, bullets. One trunk continued to grow around a canister stuck in its middle, and this tree—a three-story-high sugar maple—looks pregnant.

  Now I hear the sound of drums at a slow march tempo, carnival melody on a trumpet, a piccolo feathering out trills. Beside the start line, a company of buzzed-headed soldiers in gray flannel is playing “Bonnie Blue Flag” to inspire reflection upon the Great Lost Cause. The tune does nothing to bolster the mood we’re trying to create, which is Hey, hey, let’s kick this road’s ass.

  After the song, the Georgia governor gets up on the elevated platform and makes a speech. He’s going to run the race too. The copper statue on his back is enormous, a smiling toothless animal of some kind. The etched fur around the ears has taken on a moss-colored patina. He has to crouch to keep the ears from puncturing the canvas tarp stretched over the platform.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the pavement,” he begins. “In years past, we ran without encumbrance”—he grabs onto both sides of the podium—“and this was to our detriment! We none of us learned perseverance. The races-of-old taught us sloth and indolence. That time is over, brothers! A new day has dawned, sisters! Today we run to prove we still know how to work, to earn our way, to persevere. We run to prove we’re human!”

  I don’t clap or cheer. I’ve heard the same speech from the governors of Mississippi, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Alabama.

  Just before the gun, the Whistler turns to me. “Ever finish a race?” he asks. The Whistler is bald. His pale temples appear eggshell-thin.

  Here’s the truth: I’ve tried five times. Never made it past mile eighteen. I bonk. Twice I’ve hallucinated and wandered off-course. But I’ve never taken off my statue.

  “Finished seven times,” I say to the Whistler. “Subfour, my last three races.”

  My left leg prickles against a hairy calf, while my right presses into the torpid skin of the Whistler’s thigh. I think his femur would snap with an abrupt bend of my knee.

  The Whistler winks. “Took me twelve races to get to mile twenty-three and figure out the secret. Now I’m just in this to win the lottery.”

  I’ve heard rumors about mile twenty-three. When I first started racing I asked other runners about it. They turned the stink eye on me. Asking for advice on finishing is poor etiquette, like letting your shadow fall across the line of a golfer’s putt.

  “They’ve upped the ante for this race,” the Whistler says, lowering his voice. “That’s insider info for you. Too many runners trying to beat the system. Rumor is, they’re taking care of it this time. Race organizers want to send a clear message to cheaters.”

  Since he brought it up, I think I might ask the Whistler about the secret. But the announcer is calling the soldiers to attention. In unison, they ramrod their muskets.

  “Runners, take your marks!” Musket tips lower, aim at the gray dawn just above the tree line. We freeze in the best lunge positions we can manage in our limited space. I hear the Whistler pushing air out between his teeth. Shiyou, shiyou. And then the muskets fire.

  The early miles are a study in managed restraint. With experience, you learn to control the rush of adrenaline, run slower than you feel. The newbies are already passing the front-runners, thinking they must be some kind of athletes. Be frugal with that lamp oil, I want to tell them, it’s a long night ahead.

  The first two miles, you think about elbows. How to find room for yours, how to protect yourself from the jabs of others. Safest to stay beside a Snuggly runner, though I’ve not seen one yet this morning. Backpacks are bobbing all around me—everything from tiny pouches that fit into smalls of backs to one statue so large the guy rolled it up in sleeping bags and lashed it, with ropes, to his bare torso. There are always showcase runners like this, who make things more difficult for themselves. At the Country Music Marathon in Nashville, I saw a man running with a two-by-four across his shoulders—this in addition to a life-sized baby orangutan bobbing in his front carrier. And during the Atlanta Marathon, a woman with a bronze two-headed Weimaraner on her back pushed a double jog stroller piled high with books.

  Above us the sky is slate, tinged pink just above the trees. On either side of the road are granite monuments the size of refrigerators. They’re gray-white, rough-edged, with engraved metal plaques screwed onto their fronts. Behind me, the Whistler has started to emit a rhythmic scree sound, which—contrary to what the people interviewed for the Runner’s World article said—is neither inspiring nor endearing. I veer off-course to check out one of the plaques and let the Whistler pass.

  Pennsylvania, 77th Regiment, Veteran Infantry, 24th Brigade, 3rd Division, 70th Army Corps. A man squats behind the monument, hugging his knees and pressing his back into the stone like he wants to merge with it. The top of his head is bald and shiny with sweat. On the ground in front of him is a bulging school-sized backpack.

  He looks up. “What mile is this?”

  “Three,” I say.

  “Knew I’d never make it to five.” He looks down at the backpack. “I don’t think they noticed when I took it off.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “but you might want to put it back on before they find you.”

  “I’m through,” he says. “Didn’t train. I only signed up to get this”—he toes the pack—“piece-of-shit flying horse. Thing’s ceramic. And I’m a goddamn news anchor.”

  He looks up at me like he’s just remembered something. “You recognize me, right? Channel Five?”

  “Listen,” I say, looking around to make sure no one’s watching, “you want me to put it on for you?”

  “Oh, God,” the man says. He changes position so that he’s on his knees, then lowers his face to the ground like a suppliant. The tread on his running shoes is bright blue. With one hand he beckons me to come closer. I squat beside him. “It’s the wings,” he whispers. “They’re fucking painted.”

  The anchorman begins to weep.

  “They’ll hear you,” I say; but it’s too late, already a man wearing an orange Race Staff T-shirt is pulling up in a golf cart.

  The anchorman rises to a kneel. He unzips the backpack and takes out a glossy white horse the size of a Pekinese. The rainbow stripes on the wings are uneven, the colors blurred together as if smeared on by a child. “Take it!” he yells. He throws the statue against the side of the golf cart, where it shatters. One of the wings, intact, lands in the driver’s lap.

  The anchorman stands. He climbs into the cart, leaving the empty backpack on the ground behind the monument.

  “Never wanted to be a runner anyhow,” I hear him say as
they drive off. “Absolutely detest the sport.”

  I rejoin the race. According to my watch, I’ve lost three minutes, forty-two seconds.

  Breathing, coughing, hacking, and spitting. The thumping of shoes on pavement. Above these sounds, birdsong. By mile four the sky has turned a pale blue and the tops of the highest trees are in sunlight. There aren’t many spectators on this part of the course, but the few who are out here clap as we pass. “Keep it up!” they yell. “Keep those statues ON!”

  I’ve settled into my pace, a solid 8:30 mile. I start to pick people off.

  “He was out of shape,” I hear a woman say to her friend as I pass them on mile five. “But his statue. Jesus, you almost had to bow.”

  “Never the athletes who get the Art anymore,” her friend says. “Never the ones who deserve it.”

  “Whole system’s corrupt,” the first woman says.

  People get chatty in the early miles. You don’t hear much talk after mile sixteen, when the real pain starts.

  At mile six I hit the first water station. Folding tables are set up in front of a battery of green howitzers. The volunteers handing out filled cups lunge toward the racers, arms stretched in front of them, backs to the mouths of the cannons. From a distance, they look like they’re fleeing artillery fire.

  The water stations are where quitters start to congregate, usually folks who stop running to get a drink. Their heart rates drop, they decide to sit for a minute to rest. Maybe they untie their shoes, massage their calves, strike up conversations. Eventually, large groups of dropouts are lounging all over the grass—awkwardly, with their backpacks on.

  In past races I have been a lounger. Loungers stretch their hamstrings and posit questions. What are we trying to accomplish here? Do we want to run a marathon statue-free? Isn’t it the statue itself that engenders the desire to run marathons in the first place? Indeed, could the euphoric—might we say, poetic—feeling in the soul of the distance runner exist without the statue-bearing system? Wouldn’t it, in fact, be unnatural to run without one?

  If not for our statues, would there be anything left to distinguish us as individuals?

  A dissenter will point out the obvious: Statue-free is faster. If you ran statue-free, you would set a personal record.

  To which the loungers will respond, If that matters to you.

  A mile past the water station is a tent with a sign: Race Counselors. Around the tent are men and women wearing orange staff T-shirts that say Stay In To Win! If you feel like you want to quit, or—worse—take off your statue, the counselors are there to help. They will run alongside you and try to talk you out of it.

  On mile seven a young woman in front of me—long-legged, lean, mid- twenties—is trying to wriggle out of her mesh backpack. Through the fabric I can see a blown-glass penis. It’s about a foot long, transparent, really quite lovely for a standard-issue phallus. Running beside her is a counselor who seems ill-matched to this girl; he’s short with stocky legs and dark hair. His torso is rotated toward her, which makes his pacing awkward. He takes two strides for every one of hers. He’s holding on to her left shoulder strap.

  “You’re young,” he’s saying. “Lots of miles left on those legs.”

  The girl is trying to pry the counselor’s hand off the left strap. The right strap is dangling off her shoulder.

  “Trust me, it gets easier,” the counselor says.

  “You think this is hard for me?” she says. “I’m in better shape than most of these jog-bunnies. And my statue weighs, like, nothing.”

  “Then why quit?”

  “It’s just stupid,” she says.

  “The statues don’t mean anything,” he says.

  “They’re totally sexist,” she says.

  “It isn’t wise to make decisions during a race. Your feelings are false indicators.”

  “I had my doubts long before today,” she says. “Soon as I opened the box I knew what a farce this was going to be.”

  “It’s worth it, to finish,” the counselor says. “To know you’re a real runner.”

  The girl has managed to slide the counselor’s hand down onto her upper arm.

  “You ever finish a marathon?” she asks.

  “We’re not called to race,” the counselor says, his voice so low I have to speed up and run alongside them to hear. “Only to help those who are.”

  I glance sideways. The girl is gorgeous—blond, high cheekbones, tiny turned-up nose.

  “Let go,” the girl says.

  “Quit, then,” the counselor says, “but keep your options open.”

  I run a few paces ahead of them. Behind me, I hear the muted crush of her mesh bag hitting the pavement.

  You hear a lot about the so-called runner’s high. Before I was a runner, I figured if there was such a thing, it would hit you like an injection. You’d be jogging along and zing—a sudden leap into euphoria, the overwhelming desire to jump for joy and shout hallelujah. But it’s not like that. It’s a gradual transition into a state of mental clarity. You don’t realize it’s happening until you’re there. For me it begins around mile eight. The smallest details become sharp. My senses open up and I can take everything in—telephone wires silhouetted against blue sky, layered bark on the trunk of a tree. The chuk-chuk-chuk of a woodpecker. By mile ten I no longer feel my feet touching the ground. It’s as if my mind has entered its own physical space, apart from my body, as if my body is dead but in no pain—never any pain, these middle miles. Because my body is gone, or more accurately, is on autopilot, my mind is free to roam. This separation of mind from flesh, spirit from matter, is what keeps me coming back for more, despite the fact that I keep bonking.

  During the high, it’s like something bigger is running me. If I were the sentimental type, I’d say that something is love. Because right now, mile eight, I want to tell every runner I pass how honored I feel to be a part of this fine gathering of trained athletes. I’ve stopped caring that my statue isn’t Authentic Art. I’m convinced, if I do happen to glimpse Authentic Art rising like holy fire from someone’s backpack, I won’t be jealous. I’ll be eager to admire and to praise. Maybe even to worship.

  If only this feeling would last the whole race.

  Miles nine through thirteen leave the battlefield and go through the city of Chickamauga. The town’s not pretty. It’s one long stretch of strip malls and gas stations, a Wal-Mart, some fast-food chains. A disconcerting number of Baptist churches. Spectators crowd the streets. Brass bands on corners play “Dixie” and “Sweet Home Alabama.” Orange cones and flashing police cars block off intersections. Golf carts buzz back and forth alongside us, keeping the crowds back. Staffers speak into megaphones: Stay behind the cones. Any assistance to runners is grounds for immediate disqualification. Friends and family members wear brightly colored hats and hold up signs. Lottery 2023! If You’ve Got Art, Show Us!

  The race organizers claim it’s the hope of glimpsing Authentic Art that draws the crowds. But we all know better. Beneath the lure of aesthetic pleasure is another one: the certainty that, if you don’t get a glimpse of Art, you’re at least guaranteed the sight of failure—runners collapsing, ditching their statues and being hauled off in shame. As a spectator, it’s best not to look into your own motives. Enjoy the spectacle, bring binoculars.

  At the moment I’m not concerned about motives. I’m riding the altruism of my runner’s high. The crowd shimmers and slips beside me like a river—glorious, glorious—and I see the bare kicking feet of babies in strollers, the wide milky eyes of children holding parents’ hands, balloons bobbing above their heads like bright translucent marbles. My breathing comes deep and easy, the air is clear with little rifts of coolness, and I feel a melting goodwill for the men and women running around me, our hearts beating out the seconds of time.

  Mile thirteen. It’s getting wa
rm out. The air has turned gauzy with humidity. I round a corner and merge onto the street that will take us back into the battlefield. Fifty yards in front of me, I see the Whistler’s Clearance sign. I can hear his exhale. I must be running an eight-minute pace, and still I have to speed up to catch him. This guy’s a miracle of endurance.

  I come up alongside him and match my stride to his. The pacer is breathing hard; the photographer is gone.

  “Hey, Whistler,” I say.

  “How you feeling?” he says.

  “Fantastic,” I say. My left Achilles tendon is burning and I’ve become hyperaware of the bottom edge of my statue jabbing into my lower back. The high is wearing off. I reach around and tighten the bungee cords.

  A lemony scent is coming off the Whistler. I also smell manure and cut grass and the beachy fragrance of my own sunscreen. We’re passing an open battlefield dotted with pyramids of cannon balls that mark the places where brigade commanders fell. Along the roadsides are markers—blue for Union, red for Confederate—placed so visitors can view the field from the vantage points of the soldiers in 1863.

  “Quite an event,” I say to the Whistler. “A marathon and a history lesson.”

  “Wait’ll you see the Wilder Tower,” he says. “Looks like a castle turret. Eighty-five feet, spectators cheering from the top.”

  We run together—the Whistler, his pacer, and I—for the next two miles. After a while his exhale doesn’t annoy me. I begin to find its rhythm lulling. My mind weaves words around its steady tempo, little iambic nonsense phrases I repeat under my breath: Under the spell of a linnet’s wings. Gently the bell will compel as it rings.

  The Wilder Tower’s at mile sixteen. I’m aware of the cheers and whistles coming from above, the Confederate flags waving on the platform of the turret. But I feel like I’m reentering gravity. My legs have acquired enormous heft. Burning in my hip flexors. Pinprick tingling along my left IT band. Numbness in my soles and across the tips of my toes.