The Track
By L. R. Giles
The Track copyright © 2004 by L.R. Giles
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Table of Contents
Excerpt from LIVE AGAIN by L.R. Giles
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The Track
Nash Blanding checked his watch while he rounded the turn in the outside lane. He was making good time, his best all week. His lungs felt like slowly expanding hot air balloons with each breath; he loved that feeling. Speeding up, he lapsed into a pleasant memory of his track and field days at Commonwealth University; he’d been All-Conference. Caught up in the past, he only narrowly missed running into a woman who veered into the lane with her dog.
He weaved into the middle lane—and nearly collided with an elderly couple walking hand in hand. Scrambling, he made it all the way to the inside lane to re-establish his pace.
At Commonwealth, when the athletes were on the field, the track was off limits. Anyone who dared to come down the stadium steps or walk through the gate was subjected to a verbal lashing from Coach Harry. Where was coach when you needed him?
These people were out every morning. No matter how early Nash tried to be someone was always there to meet him—beat him—and he hated it. Sure, it was a big track, but if they weren’t going to use it right they needed to stay the hell at home. There should be a sign: No Resolutionists Allowed.
That’s what he called them.
Resolutionists.
Usually they only woke up on New Year’s Eve and wandered the earth for a month or two before going back into hibernation, but it seemed in Stepton there was a special breed that stayed up all year long. Most Resolutionists are of the fitness variety. They tell themselves I’m going to walk for thirty minutes a day—as if you don’t do that anyway—and that’s going to make me healthier. Then, after that strenuous morning trek, they’re at The Waffle House ordering a double-stack with bacon on the side. Well, Nash didn’t know that, but judging by the guts on some of them, it seemed like a solid assumption. Then, after a week and a half of walking and not seeing any results, Resolutionists become fed up with the myth of physical fitness and their workout schedule becomes first sporadic, then non-existent. That’s the only thing that kept Nash running at the newly opened Stepton High School track; he knew most of the current crowd would be cut in half by next week, and then another downsizing would take place the week after that.
I’m going to outlast you all in every way, shape, and form, he thought. He stepped his speed up another notch.
Ahead, waddling along in the middle lane, was a flabby and familiar shape in a designer sweat suit. Nash rolled his eyes and shot past the guy like he was The Flash moving too fast to be seen by the human eye.