Praised by Jack Gantos, author of Dead End in Norvelt, as "a quick read with a kick at the finish," this debut novel sensitively and memorably captures a teen runner's relationship with his autistic older brother.
Like most siblings, Leo and Caleb have a complicated relationship. But Caleb's violent outbursts literally send Leo running. When the family is forced to relocate due to Caleb's uncontrollable behavior, Leo tries to settle into a new school, joining the cross-country team and discovering his talent for racing and endurance for distance. Things even begin to look up for Leo when he befriends Curtis, a potential state champion who teaches Leo strategy and introduces him to would-be girlfriend, Mary. But Leo's stability is short-lived as Caleb escalates his attacks on his brother, resentful of his sport successes and new friendships.
Leo can't keep running away from his problems. But, with a little help from Curtis and Mary, he can appreciate his worth as a brother and his own capacity for growth, both on and off the field.
Praise from Jack Gantos, author of Dead End in Norvelt, Hole in My Life and The Trouble With Me: "Currinder's novel, Running Full Tilt, is a fast-paced convincing drama of a young runner whose legs circle him back to the many conflicts he is trying to escape--but he can't outrun himself. A quick read with a kick at the finish."
Praise from Paul Volponi, author of The Final Four, Black and White, and Rikers High: "We feel the inner strength it takes to compete on every page of this splendid narrative, until, as readers, we are running as well--engrossed, and loving every step of the journey."
Release date:
September 5, 2017
Publisher:
Charlesbridge Teen
Print pages:
296
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I did one final stride and positioned myself on the line. It was a staggered start that would break at the first turn. When the gun finally blasted, I got sucked into the flow. I had to protect myself, but I had to be aggressive, too.
Unlike sprinters, distance runners don’t run in the solitude of their own lanes. They run in packs, with steel spikes sharp as steak knives attached to their feet. Inside a tight pack moving at close to four-minute mile pace, the spikes like barracuda teeth slashing at calves and shins from front and back, elbows and fists box for position.
By the time we cut in at the first turn, it was clear nobody wanted to take the lead in this race. So it was a scramble of bodies as we broke from the bend, sixteen guys angling toward the inside rail, like bees making their way to the hive.
We completed the first lap in 61 and change. I knew damn well that when the pack is crammed tight and you lose focus for even a split second—the amount of time it takes to blink—it’s easy to get clipped. So when I went down, the first person I cursed was myself. Falling is a runner’s worst nightmare, but I did the only thing I could do at that moment. I got back up.
I knew if I could catch the pack by the bell lap, I might have a chance. At that point in the race, every runner has crossed the pain barrier and is running on fumes. It all comes down to guts and will in the final sprint. I had three laps to go. If I could be there for the final hundred meters, I still had a chance.
That’s the beauty of a distance event. If you make a mistake early on, you can still get back in the race.
Part One 1. “Leo?”
“Yes, Caleb?”
“Who put butter on Monica’s nose?”
“You did, Caleb.”
I flipped over onto my back, put my hands under my pillow, and watched the headlights from a passing car hit the speed bump and roll across our bedroom ceiling. It was our last night in the house, and I wished to God my older brother would stop babbling nonsense and just close his eyes and go to sleep.
“Morris is frozen cat?”
“Yes, Morris is frozen cat,” I answered.
“THAT’S RIGHT!” Caleb exploded in laughter. “Leo, what car God drive?”
“What car God drive?” I asked.
“GOD DRIVE BROWN THUNDERBIRD FORD!” he said, laughing again.
My brother posed riddles, ones I never solved. I had no idea who Monica was, why our cat was frozen, or why God drove a brown Thunderbird. I just knew my brother refused to sleep, and since he never slept neither did I.
Mom and Dad once explained to me that Caleb’s autism meant that his brain made sense of the world in a different way than mine. When he saw, heard, touched, or experienced something, his brain was doing something totally different with that information than my brain. I didn’t really get it at the time. I just knew there was something inside him that made him talk differently, walk differently, act differently, and obsess on weird things like train tracks, ceiling fans, and Greyhound buses.
Caleb loved to paint, so Dad used to buy him paint-by-number kits, and on nights when he was especially restless he painted in the den outside our bedroom by the light of the television. Caleb didn’t get the whole idea of painting by numbers. He grasped the part about finding all the squiggly shapes with the same number and filling them in with the same color, but he didn’t understand that the codes were predetermined. So he produced this crazy art. One month he painted this series of seascapes where deep-blue water and white-tipped waves became bubbling orange lava flecked with flames. Green-faced sailors with blazing red eyes fought for their lives adrift bubbling molten rock.
Dad framed and crammed our bedroom walls with Caleb’s art. My favorite was da Vinci’s TheLast Supper. It hung opposite my bed, making it the first and last image I saw each day. Caleb’s version included an orange-skinned Jesus with purple hair, and apostles in jet-black robes circling behind a brick-red table. It looked more like Hells Angels at a Sizzler steak house than Christ’s final meal.
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