The Miles

by Robert Lennon

Genres: Literary Fiction; LGBT Gay

Synopsis

A squadron of spectators screamed and hooted, and Liam could feel his legs lighten. It was possible. He could run at any speed now; he would accelerate and accelerate and accelerate. . .

When Liam Walker joins a running club in New York City, it's with some trepidation. Liam has always loved running, but the world of team racing, and the camaraderie that goes with it, are new to him. Still, after years of stagnancy--working for the same magazine, living in the same apartment, and jumping from one short-term boyfriend to another--he's ready to try.

At the club, Liam meets athletes of every stripe. Some are fiercely competitive, others more interested in the after-race bagels or team nights out partying. The revelations on the track hardly compare to what happens off it--the romance and heartaches, rivalries and injuries. And as the year unfurls leading to the ultimate challenge--the New York City Marathon--Liam starts to realize all the ways in which life is measured by hills and valleys, in how far you're willing to push yourself, and in who's waiting for you at the finish line. . .

Robert Lennon works in corporate business development at a large global law firm and is a former president of Front Runners New York--one of the largest LGBT athletic clubs in the world. A former journalist for The American Lawyer magazine, Rob spends much of his time writing. As an avid runner who has completed the NYC marathon five times, Rob fuses his talents as a writer and a runner through this work. Rob has a Master's Degree in Journalism from Columbia University and a BA in History and Psychology from Duke University. He lives in Connecticut with his partner, Mark, and their twin sons.

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

The morning could not make up its mind. The strong sun yielded, more and more, to the army of clouds taking hostage of the fall sky. Icy winds gusted around the fields of Van Cortlandt Park trumpeting the coming of winter, but then let up as the sun winked through the heavy sky. It was the middle of November, and the seasons were duking it out over New York City.

Like many of the runners, Liam waited by the baggage check, wearing his warm-up pants and gloves. He hopped up and down and ran in place to stay warm. The moment would come, and shortly, when the officials corralled everyone to the starting line, and Liam would need to strip his pants off and exchange the fleece pullover that warmed his upper body with his skimpy racing singlet. Having just joined the running club, he felt it was important to don the team uniform today.

The megaphone honked some indiscernible instruction and the throng of long-limbed runners jogged toward the far end of the narrow playing field. The grass had already browned and much of the normally soft dirt had hardened with the recent cold fronts. Liam felt the uneven turf through the thin soles of his racing flats. No matter how many races he ran, stretching back to grammar school, Liam always savored and dreaded this starting-line moment. There, standing among a sea of determined athletes, he understood that the race was still a font of possibility, the result dormant in the fast-twitch fibers of everyone on the starting line. This beautiful and cruel fact of running connected Liam with all of the other gangly runners out on this 45-degree Sunday morning at just a shade past dawn.

A wizened man, who looked to be in his early seventies, whistled to command the runners’ attention. The wind shot down from the hills just north of the field, lassoing the man’s thin wisps of white hair into a makeshift Mohawk. Nervous laughter rustled through the crowd as the man furiously batted down the errant hairs. Bristling from the unwanted attention, he picked up the megaphone to hasten the start of the race. “On your mark!” the old man shouted. Liam canvassed the start one last time to get a sense of the competition. After doing just a smattering of local races, Liam already recognized a few familiar faces among the anxious masses. After deciding to get back into running following a long post-college hiatus due to burnout, Liam had participated in about a half dozen races solo before being approached to join the Fast Trackers. Apparently club leaders used their gaydar to scout for potential new members at the start and finish lines of local events. Having viewed running as a solitary endeavor for so much of his life, Liam looked forward to the camaraderie of being part of a gay running team. But right now, Liam enjoyed the eye candy offered by the super-fit runners from the other teams present at this race. One, a hollow-cheeked guy whose chocolate eyes and full red lips bestowed a vaguely French look upon his underfed face, had inched past him at the finish of the last 5K. Runners tend to remember moments like that and plot careful revenge. The gaunt man’s eyes twinkled as he acknowledged Liam’s stare. And the gun went off.

After jostling through the first hundred meters of the field, Liam began to feel comfortable and well positioned. He kept telling himself to control his breathing; the adrenaline could ruin a fine race with too fast a start. His high school coach, Daryl Humphries, an almost-member of the 1984 Olympic distance team who lived vicariously through whomever he was currently coaching, had always warned that a road race could not be won in the first mile, though it could easily be lost, “if you go out like a fool with something to prove.”

As he rounded the turn toward the backstretch of the field, Liam caught sight of the three lead runners. They had already picked up a sizable lead after only five minutes of racing. There was something enviably effortless and offensively unobtainable in the way their lithe bodies moved. The pale November light emphasized the architectural beauty of their sinewy arms and legs. The thin straps of their singlets moved up and down on the knobs of their shoulders where the collarbone protruded. Liam tried to control his breathing and focused on his gait as those more naturally fleet of foot charged up the hills and into the woods, where the race course truly began.

Autumn had come late this year, and mounds of recently fallen leaves coated the middle section of the running trail. Knowing how uneven and rocky this winding path was, Liam looked for the open spaces between the leaves throughout the race. He played a game where he tried to find leafless patches large enough for his entire foot, and used that challenge to keep his mind off the pain that now funneled through his body. You weren’t running your hardest if you didn’t feel these slight twinges of pain. That was another one of Daryl’s famous running credos. Liam’s lungs were always fine while racing, but his stomach heaved whenever he ran at top speed for more than a mile. He knew that if he ignored the awful sensation, then nothing bad would happen to him. The body can withstand amazing stress.

The first set of rolling hills proved to be easier than Liam remembered. He had hit his stride and was neither being passed nor passing other runners. A good omen. The course took a sharp downhill and then hooked left before climbing into a monstrous uphill. Even though Liam had readied his body, the steep rise began to take its toll. He shortened his stride and focused on quickening the turnover of his feet to maintain his pace with slightly less effort. So much of running well was about physics and mechanics. Liam didn’t realize that his breathing had become grossly audible until the Parisian runner strode up alongside him and asked if he was okay. Understanding this as a psych-out technique, Liam nodded and choked down his abbreviated breaths. He knew that if he just stayed in step with this runner through the crest of the hill, he would be completely fine. While not the greatest uphill runner, Liam had complete faith in his ability to tear down hills with unmatched speed. As they moved above the peak of the trail, Liam imagined all the tension in his spine uncoiling as he worked his arms and let gravity catapult him down the hill. He knew that he had to step confidently and allow the momentum he generated to glide him through the next series of rolling hills, which would deposit him near the finish line of this 5K loop.

As soon as he passed his newfound nemesis, Liam wondered how far back he was and found himself listening for his competitor’s breathing and for the fall of his feet along the cross-country trail. Remembering a cardinal rule of running, Liam refused to look over his shoulder and instead concentrated on the runner ahead of him. The tall figure was just a smudge in Liam’s field of vision, too far ahead right now to be passable. Liam moved his arms with more force and determination, so that his legs might not slow from the exhaustion.

Bearing right at the final fork of the cross-country course, Liam could see the bright yellow banner that hung above the finish line. He directed all his attention toward his legs and leaned into his stride. He reminded himself that pushing through the end of the race, speeding toward the finish despite exhaustion, is what separates the extraordinary runner from the average one. Anyone can run fast when they’re fresh; it takes desire and determination to run fast when tired.

In a matter of seconds, Liam realized he was closing ground on the runner in front of him. Was he truly running faster or had this other runner slowed down? The orange star on the blue microfiber tank top soon became clear. This was a team member whose head now bobbled and whose arms flailed as he attempted to finish the race. A squadron of spectators screamed and hooted, and Liam could feel his legs lighten. It was possible. He could run at any speed now; he would accelerate and accelerate and accelerate. As he passed the Fast Tracker, Liam shouted, “Come on, man! Suck it up and count to ten. We’re there!” And with that wake-up call, the sluggish guy was roused and attempted to match Liam stride for stride. Liam could not hold back, though he knew that finishing on the line together would be a pleasant gesture of camaraderie, a way for the new guy to show that he was a team player. And Liam did think of himself as a team player. But he had to be true to the instincts that overtook him during races. What was the point of training to the brink of exhaustion during workouts and then pushing your physical limits on race day to suddenly rein it all in? Liam flew through the finishing chute, practically crashing into the man recording the times and places of the racers.

“Good job!” Liam felt the sweaty touch and knew it was the Fast Tracker he’d just bested. As he lifted his head to offer congratulations, Liam saw the emaciated Frenchman cross the finishing line.

“That course kicked my ass!” It was the truth, but Liam felt embarrassed to have offered up the least original thing one runner had ever said to another.

“Yeah, right!” The sallow-faced man struggled to catch his breath. “Your ass seemed just fine to me.” Now he brushed some sweat from his brow before extending his hand for an introduction. “I’m Gene ... You must be new to the team.”

“Excuse me! Excuse me! Could you take the small talk somewhere else? People need to walk through this chute to get out of here.”

The Frenchman scissored by in a huff, but Liam couldn’t help admiring the angles of his face and the self-important manner with which he moved.

“Maybe he’s sore that I got the best of him out there.” Liam chuckled.

“You’ll get to know that one,” Gene said. “Didier Vallois. He’s a real peach. All the Urban Bobcats take themselves way too seriously. They’re the fastest guys in town so they expect a parting of the seas worthy of Moses.”

“At least he’s cute.”

“Best part of running is the scenery. I’ve been saying it for years.”

Mischief darted through Gene’s eyes. Liam had seen the act before. Gay men couldn’t help but flirt, and nine times out of ten Liam reciprocated the advances. Dozens of clever lines sprang to his mind, but he resisted the temptation. This Gene person seemed perfectly nice but completely sexless, with a soft face and hairless arms and legs. Liam preferred men whose sexuality howled through their pores. Plus, for the time being, he wanted Fast Trackers to be an outlet for making new friends and running buddies, not an avenue for sexual liaisons or romantic dalliances. He had enough of that combing the bar scene in New York City since graduating college. Liam decided to take a cordial approach here; after all, it never hurt to be polite.

“You know I should probably be doing a quick cooldown around the field before heading back to the subway station. I need to get home soon.”

Liam was exaggerating slightly, but he did have brunch plans in a couple of hours and showering beforehand would be nice.

“With this colder weather, I should be doing the same. How ’bout I keep you company?”

Liam sensed that Gene had an adhesive quality that was amiable for only the very briefest period of time. As they jogged around the perimeter of the field, Liam actively avoided engaging Gene in small talk by studying the steely tufts of sky. It now looked like a winter’s day. Liam cherished the first days of winter, when the novelty of the new season offered some fresh perspective on life and the possibility of change. There was something noble and definitive about the start of winter.

Despite Liam’s stony silence, Gene wore on about his own personal training regimen throughout the cooldown. Liam heard the words ladder and interval and hill repeats over and over again but zoned out on the details. The lack of encouragement did not dampen Gene’s march through running tales—a trio of PRs (the abbreviation road racers loved to use to indicate their “personal records” or best times) at various distances parachuted into the story line as complete non sequiturs. Liam wondered what Gene’s “personal record” for longest hiatus from talking about himself might be.

Rounding out their half-mile loop, Liam patted Gene on the shoulder to signal his good-bye. A group of runners in blue and orange who had been clustered near the finish line trotted toward Gene and Liam.

Making his way up the hill that led away from the cross-country course, Liam looked over his left shoulder to get a better impression of the group. Heads dangled and turned in conversation, then one pair of eyes caught Liam’s and suddenly a few hands waved nervously.

Liam decided to jog toward the downtown train. The damp chill of the November morning had sunk its teeth into his bones, and he began to crave the lure of home, the press of a hot shower, and the worn comfort of his couch.

“It said the Daniel Webster Statue, Liam. Why do you insist on questioning me? I knew I shouldn’t have let you drag me along with you. Your honor doesn’t need any protecting, babe.”

Whenever Monroe turned sassy like this, Liam would tease him by simply answering “Yes, Miss Marilyn” to whatever complaint he voiced. Today Liam resisted the temptation because Monroe was going above and beyond friendship’s call of duty by agreeing to tag along on a 9:30 A.M. Saturday morning fun run.

“I believe you. But are you sure this is the right transverse? We’ve been up and down it twice and I don’t see any statue. Maybe we should jog up to 102nd Street.”

“Liam, which do you think is more likely? Really? On the one hand, you have Seventy-second Street, the center of residential life on the Upper East and Upper West Sides, and on the other, 102nd Street, which is simply too far uptown for a bunch of Chelsea queens.”

To distance himself from the story lines that Monroe was spinning, Liam had begun to pick up his pace and was now practically out of earshot. The light, wet snowflakes that had drifted aimlessly through the park all morning finally found their destination. The bark of the bare trees that lined the park roads was becoming mottled with snow. Liam watched his feet press wide and flat against the newly dusted asphalt.

“Over there!” He finally heard Monroe’s winded scream from behind him. Liam turned to see his friend clutching his side with his right arm and pointing due west with his left. “That group of queens in the tights and funny hats ... those are for sure your boys.”

“Good eyes! Sorry I doubted you for a second, Norma Jean.”

“It’s still too early in the morning for me to be amused by your antics, so be careful.”

They made their way into the semicircle that had formed on the edge of the large loop that cuts through the entire park—all the way from Fifty-ninth Street up to Harlem Hill at 110th Street. Liam had never noticed this particular intersection before and was still searching for the statue that had been designated as the meeting spot. As he met Monroe’s gaze again, Liam caught sight of a rotund figure looming behind the pack of runners, enshrouded in the skeletal embrace of some old, leafless elms. Now he wondered, Daniel Webster? The statesman was large and bronze and imposing, just a few feet from the transverse. Why was Daniel Webster here watching over the pageantry of Central Park? The assemblage of monuments and tributes and honoraria throughout Manhattan had puzzled Liam ever since he was a little kid and his father pointed out the Garibaldi statue in the then grimy paths of Washington Square Park.

“Okay, okay, everyone! Let’s get this party started.” The voice boomed from a swizzle stick of a man with thick graying hair. “Everyone introduce yourself. Let us know if you’re a first-timer or visitor from another city, and we’ll hook you up with a buddy who runs your pace.”

Liam could feel Monroe’s eyes on him. After scanning the club’s website, Liam assured his friend that things would be incredibly casual and that Monroe wouldn’t even have to run with anyone if he didn’t want to. This should not be the end of the world. Monroe had always talked about how he ran on the treadmill three times a week. Surely he would be able to keep up with some of the roly-poly guys gathered here.

“And you there! Yoo-hoo! I know you might have been out at Therapy until the wee hours, but wake up and tell us your name!”

“Sorry. I’m Liam. Sorry.”

“You’re too cute to apologize, hon. Now tell me, is this your first time?”

“Sort of ... I have been racing here and there, but this is my first fun run with the group.”

“Gary, this is the dude I was bragging about. Zoomed right past me at Van Cortlandt during the 5K Championships.”

Without this pronouncement, Liam would have never pegged the pale face under the moss-colored hoodie as Gene’s. After giving Gene an acknowledgment so cursory it bordered on rudeness, Liam looked over at Monroe. No words needed to be exchanged. That’s what Liam loved about their friendship. Monroe just had a sense of things, a wisdom of situations.

“Well, Gene. You’ve had an opportunity to meet Liam. Let’s have Marvin run with him this morning. Marvin can give him a nice fast run.”

The wiry man leading the announcements pointed toward a red-haired man with a splash of freckles across his nose. His legs were short but their muscle-thick definition popped through the black tights he wore.

“Okay, last and I hope not least.”

“It’s Monroe.”

“Love the name! Now what pace, hon?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How fast is real damn slow?”

“Don’t you worry, Monroe. We leave no runners behind here. Horace will run with you.”

A lanky man in neon-blue warm-up pants and a violet Windbreaker waved over toward Monroe. Clutched in both hands, Horace had bronze weights that looked to be a few pounds each. His thick seventies mustache had yellowed with age or bad habits.

“God, do you owe me,” Monroe muttered through clenched teeth. “Start saving your lunch money, bitch.” He then dashed off without looking at Liam.

Marvin could not have been more different from Gene. During their run, he offered almost nothing in the way of small talk and answered Liam’s questions in a manner suggesting that he wasn’t looking to make a new best friend. Liam did learn that Marvin taught astronomy at a fancy Upper East Side school for boys and had raced seriously since competing as an All-American for his college cross-country team. As they finished their five-mile run, Marvin asked Liam if he planned on going back to the church for brunch. While Liam had read about the Saturday ritual online, he had not been sure what to make of the whole affair and told Monroe that they would play each step of the morning by ear. Despite his being quiet during their run, Marvin now enthusiastically insisted that Liam go to brunch. It was apparently what made the whole morning, the whole run in the park, worthwhile. And when Liam suggested waiting for Monroe to return with Horace, Marvin snickered and claimed that they would both freeze to death by the time those slowpokes got back.

“Everyone heads back to the church,” Marvin repeated. “Horace hasn’t skipped bagels since the Pointer Sisters started burning doing the Neutron Dance.”

It all sounded logical enough. Surely Monroe would want some food after running out in the cold. Even as he supplied himself with this cast-iron logic, Liam could imagine his friend’s pursed lips and could hear Monroe’s curt reassurances that he had managed to fend for himself just fine despite being abandoned. There would be snide innuendo and passive-aggressive back-and-forth, but nothing that Liam had not encountered—and successfully handled—before. After six years of friendship, replete with dramatic fights, Liam had learned how to maneuver the minefield of Monroe’s sensitivities but still often chose to live dangerously.

When Monroe rescued Liam from an aggressively drunk hanger-on at Starlight Club on Avenue A back in the early 2000s, Liam sensed it to be a more than auspicious start to their relationship. Not having had a lot of gay friends at Amherst College, Liam had to learn how gay friendships differed from straight ones. He chose to ignore the undercurrent of sexual tension at play in his encounters with Monroe and believe there was a tacit understanding that theirs was a platonic connection—nothing more, nothing less. It sometimes saddened Liam that gay men seemed to place a much lower premium on relationships of this ilk in favor of those centered around the ephemeral pleasures of the flesh. Over the years, Liam and Monroe had strengthened their bond, despite the entrance of petty jealousies here and there.

“Looks like we’re the first runners back today. Bravo to us,” Marvin said, patting Liam firmly on the shoulder. Liam puzzled over the wide chasm between mid-run Marvin and post-run Marvin.

There were about a dozen men assembled in the gym-like basement area of the church that they had just entered off of Broadway. The bright primary colors of the mats that lined the walls and part of the floor imbued the room with the childlike simplicity of a third-grade PE class. Two men in matching sweater vests split bagels in half while a cluster of chatty men in street clothing assembled chairs in a half moon on the gymnasium floor.

“That’s the judging circle. You’ll learn all about them in due time. There are volumes for you to learn. You’re in for a trip if you stick around. And it is worth the price of admission. Ah, to be a newbie again!”

As Marvin reeled off club factoids and fodder, Liam eyed the men wh. . .