Run and Not Be Weary

The pulse was pounding in his skull as sweat poured off every centimeter of his skin. He felt overheated, almost feverish, as the sun glared off the pavement and buildings, reflecting the sticky heat that rolled into them in waves. The spectators lining the course had long since ceased to exist in Lee's mind. Their shouts of encouragement had become a monotonal undercurrent like the drone of bagpipes. Nothing existed more than a few feet from Lee as he simply tried to keep lifting his weighted legs and arms, gasping breath harshly into burning lungs, his body pouring out sweat as if from hidden springs beneath his skin. He was aware of Franklin at his side, though they hadn't spoken since his move at the turnaround point. Lee focused on the pavement just ahead of them, barely aware of the TV truck less than a block up the empty street. Franklin made a move then. The crowd reacted more quickly than Lee, roaring its approval as Franklin inched ahead, driving his arms, his face a determined grimace. Surprisingly, the crowd got Lee's attention first. The rise in volume and tone was such a marked contrast that it sent a signal to his battle-numbed brain. Even so, it took a moment for him to realize what had happened, and then to react. His reaction, when it came, was an overreaction. He unleashed everything he had left. Although it wasn't much, it carried him even with Franklin and then slightly ahead. Franklin knew it was still more than a quarter-mile to the finish, barely visible in the distance. He let Lee have his flirtation with the lead, sure the less-experienced runner had misjudged. Moments later, Lee proved him right. Lee's tempo slowed as he visibly weakened. Franklin inched past him, then pulled away steadily. Lee could see Franklin moving ahead. Somewhere deep in his mind, he realized what he had done. He looked up, searching for the finish line. Even through his blurred and clouded vision, he could see it about four blocks ahead. Just hold on, he told himself. Keep moving, that's all. Just a couple more blocks. Lee was slowing visibly as the finish-line crowd roared its approval of Franklin's effort and his time, which indeed was going to be a course record. Lee tried to focus solely on the finish line. He didn't even notice as the TV truck pulled to the side two blocks short of the chute. He didn't notice as Franklin finished moments later, so exhausted he could barely raise his arms to break the finish tape. Lee just lurched forward on wobbly legs, not even aware he had begun to weave across the freshly painted center line. The crowd noise seemed to fade in and out as if someone was playing with the volume control. The finish area grew hazy and darker. Then it lightened until it was almost painfully bright and Lee could think only of how much he wished he had sunglasses. People were waving to him half a block ahead, and Lee realized they were trying to direct him to the finish line. Blankly, he responded, too exhausted even to wonder how he had gotten so far off course. Two men flanked him the final steps, arms outstretched, ready to support him, urging him toward the chute. Lee's knees buckled three steps past the finish line, but someone caught him and held him upright as he stumbled between the ropes, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut. He had made it.