London - Boston Marathon

London
by Mark Anderson

In London, I lived with an Indian,
an Australian, a Spaniard and two brothers -

Irishmen, one of which,
a lanky ginger whose accent brought tears to my eyes,

taught me to ride
the fine line between lust and love.

I showed up late to class each morning
wearing the same clothes I'd worn the night before

at the pubs and clubs,
unwavering and undisturbed,

as if the whole world were mine
because it was.

Boston Marathon
by Michael Herman

In 1978, a little known runner from Charlotte named John Rettle ran The Boston Marathon for the first time. He had been a long-distance runner in high school and, following one uneventful semester at college, he returned to his parents home in Charlotte with his suitcase in hand. Some things were whispered at first about his prompt return amongst the people who knew his parents and knew his family.

The Rettles were held in high esteem amongst the neighborhood going back to his great-grandfather’s arrival previous to the McKinley Administration. They were a well-read family of altruists initially and then also philanthropists once they had established themselves in the community. There was even talk of one of John’s grandfather’s brothers running for statewide office before everyone realize the world of politics is no place to waste a man of such high moral fiber. That one of their kind failed to live up to the over large expectations of the family, both internally and without, was grounds for much consternation.

The women of the community asked each other what could have gone wrong with that boy. Was it a girl who broke his heart? Could he have gotten mixed into the wrong group of people so far away from his home and his family? Perhaps this was a wider-spread problem. It was entirely possible this new generation of Rettles were not made of the same stuff as their predecessors. The modest wealth the family had acquired was making this newest batch of world-beaters into the intellectual equivalent of wet mush. John was the eldest of his generation and, though no one was willing to out-and-out speculate, those who followed him in age didn’t seem to have the same streak which had carried their family to the top.

That talk faded as soon as there were new topics to discuss such as racial integration of the schools and such. John had taken common jobs in the community and the other members of his generation went on to do things worthy of their family heritage. His brother became a prominent doctor with a procedure named after him while his second cousin went into science and worked for the government as a part of The Rand Corporation. By the time three different families lost sons in Vietnam during the same week, John was a mere afterthought. The cashier at the grocery store still smiled at him but that was because she was still young and he was still handsome.

Now, as he stood at the starting line in Hopkinton, Mass at thirty-two years of age, John could feel the weight of expectation hanging on him still. He looked to his left and right seeing other runners had prepared for the brisk New England April by wearing sweatshirts and he wondered if he made the right decision to run in just shorts and a tank top. This was the first time he’d run long distance since high school and it seemed both regular and foreign to him. There was no way of knowing how his body would react now that he was much older and since he had not trained. Slowly the other runners shed their extra gear, handed them to loved ones and took final calls of encouragement. Noone had traveled to Boston with John simply because he hadn’t told anyone. He wanted to come to them at the end and after it was all over with news of what he’d accomplished.

With a ready-set-gunshot, the race began and muscle memory took over. The regular switch and gate of his earlier years returned to him and he glided through the crowd of runners in front of him. By the end of the first mile the elite men runners had left him behind and most of the elite women runners had by the end of the fourth mile. But John remained ahead of the majority of the pack and he could feel the air around him heat as he passed through it. It was the greatest moment of his life.

Slowly the younger runners who had paced themselves gained on and then passed him. It was around mile ten the first one zipped by him like a lithe gazelle streaking across the veldt. John watched as he went past with a pace twice his and each step carrying him further ahead. The younger man’s calf muscles twitched in rapid succession like trees bending in a stiff wind, all power and no resistance. At mile twelve more than a handful had gone past and by mile fourteen John had receded back into the pack amongst his peers. His side ached, his feet hurt and each step boomed through his entire body.

It was around the nineteen mile mark he felt the blood accumulating in his shoe. He was wearing a new pair of shoes he’d purchased the week before in Charlotte and something about them didn’t fit right. On another man they might’ve been a perfect fit. But as his heel struck pavement and his toes slapped directly to the ground the shoe shifted slightly along the outside edge. These were the same shoes he’d worn during high school when he ran the mile, the 5k and the 10k. He was now three times further than he’d ever ran competitively and the additional wear had cracked the skin causing his foot to become irritated and then bleed.

John sat down at the bottom of the hill between the twentieth and twenty-first mile. He took off his shoe to assess the damage. The bloody mess had soaked through his shoe and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get his sock back on if he removed it. He slipped the shoe back onto his foot and tied it tighter than it had been. Two steps down the course he had to sit down again. Someone from the BAA came over to him and offered him help. A nice young woman, she smiled at John as she removed his shoes and socks to apply pressure, stop the bleeding and begin bandaging his feet. It was a small detail he didn’t notice as he sat spectator to those still on the course going past him.