Breathe, Annie, Breathe
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PART I
An Ending
TODAY’S DISTANCE: 5 MILES
Six Months Until the Country Music Marathon
As a kid, I had the worst mile time ever.
Our gym teacher made us run the mile a few times a year for something called the Presidential Fitness Test. I’d huff and puff and wonder why the hell President Bush cared how fast I could run laps around the playground. I always came in dead last.
Most of the boys could run a mile in eight or nine minutes. The girls usually came in around ten. And there I was, scooting in at over thirteen minutes. Truth be told, running bored the hell out of me. I’d rather have been doing word problems.
Today, I’m running five miles along the Little Duck River. If I finish, this will be the farthest I’ve ever run. I know I’ll finish—there’s no way I can give up.
Because I’m doing this for him.
At mile 3.5, my running coach rides up next to me on his bike. Matt Brown is twenty-four and owns a program that trains people to run marathons. Some people on my team are running because it’s a lifelong dream, some want to lose weight, and the others, like me, haven’t told anyone why they’re doing this.
“How’s it goin’, Annie?” Matt asks.
“Oo-kkay.” Great. The lack of air is making me stutter. I can’t breathe.
“You’re Jordan’s friend, right?”
If you consider the school’s new football coach my friend. “She s-signed me up for your program, y-yeah.”
He hops off his bike and pushes it along beside me. I can’t believe he walks as fast as I run. “You need anything? Water? Tylenol? Vaseline?”
“Vaseline?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, for chafing. Are you having any issues?”
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine a man would ask if I’m chafing. “No, thanks.”
I shuffle, one foot after the other, trying to run like Matt taught me at the beginning of today’s session. Keep my toes facing forward. Move my arms back and forth. Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. Pain pierces my side.
“What’s your pace so far today?”
I glance at my new watch, tempted to lie and say I’m doing nine-minute miles. “About twelve minutes a m-mile.”
“Not bad. When you’re doing these long runs on the weekend, make sure you run your miles a minute slower than you usually do on your short runs.”
I can’t imagine going any more slowly than this, but I nod as Matt climbs back aboard his bike. “See you at the finish line.”
I must’ve accidentally inhaled glue or something when I signed up for the Country Music Marathon.
•••
I’m at 4.5 miles.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
Point my toes.
Check my watch. I’ve slowed to a 14-minute mile. I’m going about as fast as that cloud, lazily inching across the blue sky. Half a mile to go.
A gorgeous woman with olive-toned skin, bouncy brown curls, and a pink ID bracelet jogs up next to me. Matt makes everybody on our team wear the bracelets so he can identify us and get in touch with our emergency contacts just in case.
“Damn. Our coach is fine.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” I reply, sucking in a breath. “He trains us by making us chase after him.”
The lady chuckles. “You’re probably right.” She speeds up and within the minute, I can’t see her anymore. Not a surprise. Every time I start running, I get a great lead, but then it’s like a parachute opens behind me.
Swaying willow trees and trickling water lead me along the dirt path back toward my car, which is parked at the mouth of the Little Duck. Today’s run is peaceful, but not boring. Considering how much stuff I have to think about, like drinking the right amount of water, looking for mile markers, and studying my watch, there’s not much time left to obsess about graduation, or college, or him.
Instead, I can focus on this new CamelBak water-hydration device I’m wearing like a backpack. It kind of looks like a bong. I slip the plastic tube in my mouth and sip some water, pretending I’m taking a hit. Kyle would laugh at how ridiculous I’m being.
Stop thinking about him. Stop already.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I bet that when I start the longer distances this summer, running upward of fifteen to twenty miles on a Saturday morning, I’ll have even more stuff to obsess over to distract me. Like chafing and Vaseline and continent-sized blisters.
One foot after the other. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I inhale the springy smell of dandelions. They dot the grass like gold coins.
An Ending
TODAY’S DISTANCE: 5 MILES
Six Months Until the Country Music Marathon
As a kid, I had the worst mile time ever.
Our gym teacher made us run the mile a few times a year for something called the Presidential Fitness Test. I’d huff and puff and wonder why the hell President Bush cared how fast I could run laps around the playground. I always came in dead last.
Most of the boys could run a mile in eight or nine minutes. The girls usually came in around ten. And there I was, scooting in at over thirteen minutes. Truth be told, running bored the hell out of me. I’d rather have been doing word problems.
Today, I’m running five miles along the Little Duck River. If I finish, this will be the farthest I’ve ever run. I know I’ll finish—there’s no way I can give up.
Because I’m doing this for him.
At mile 3.5, my running coach rides up next to me on his bike. Matt Brown is twenty-four and owns a program that trains people to run marathons. Some people on my team are running because it’s a lifelong dream, some want to lose weight, and the others, like me, haven’t told anyone why they’re doing this.
“How’s it goin’, Annie?” Matt asks.
“Oo-kkay.” Great. The lack of air is making me stutter. I can’t breathe.
“You’re Jordan’s friend, right?”
If you consider the school’s new football coach my friend. “She s-signed me up for your program, y-yeah.”
He hops off his bike and pushes it along beside me. I can’t believe he walks as fast as I run. “You need anything? Water? Tylenol? Vaseline?”
“Vaseline?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, for chafing. Are you having any issues?”
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine a man would ask if I’m chafing. “No, thanks.”
I shuffle, one foot after the other, trying to run like Matt taught me at the beginning of today’s session. Keep my toes facing forward. Move my arms back and forth. Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. Pain pierces my side.
“What’s your pace so far today?”
I glance at my new watch, tempted to lie and say I’m doing nine-minute miles. “About twelve minutes a m-mile.”
“Not bad. When you’re doing these long runs on the weekend, make sure you run your miles a minute slower than you usually do on your short runs.”
I can’t imagine going any more slowly than this, but I nod as Matt climbs back aboard his bike. “See you at the finish line.”
I must’ve accidentally inhaled glue or something when I signed up for the Country Music Marathon.
•••
I’m at 4.5 miles.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
Point my toes.
Check my watch. I’ve slowed to a 14-minute mile. I’m going about as fast as that cloud, lazily inching across the blue sky. Half a mile to go.
A gorgeous woman with olive-toned skin, bouncy brown curls, and a pink ID bracelet jogs up next to me. Matt makes everybody on our team wear the bracelets so he can identify us and get in touch with our emergency contacts just in case.
“Damn. Our coach is fine.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” I reply, sucking in a breath. “He trains us by making us chase after him.”
The lady chuckles. “You’re probably right.” She speeds up and within the minute, I can’t see her anymore. Not a surprise. Every time I start running, I get a great lead, but then it’s like a parachute opens behind me.
Swaying willow trees and trickling water lead me along the dirt path back toward my car, which is parked at the mouth of the Little Duck. Today’s run is peaceful, but not boring. Considering how much stuff I have to think about, like drinking the right amount of water, looking for mile markers, and studying my watch, there’s not much time left to obsess about graduation, or college, or him.
Instead, I can focus on this new CamelBak water-hydration device I’m wearing like a backpack. It kind of looks like a bong. I slip the plastic tube in my mouth and sip some water, pretending I’m taking a hit. Kyle would laugh at how ridiculous I’m being.
Stop thinking about him. Stop already.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I bet that when I start the longer distances this summer, running upward of fifteen to twenty miles on a Saturday morning, I’ll have even more stuff to obsess over to distract me. Like chafing and Vaseline and continent-sized blisters.
One foot after the other. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I inhale the springy smell of dandelions. They dot the grass like gold coins.
