I Want to Show You More (9780802193742) Read Online Free PDF Page A

eye on me. Asking for advice on finishing is poor etiquette, like letting your shadow fall across the line of a golfer’s putt.
    â€œThey’ve upped the ante for this race,” the Whistler says, lowering his voice. “That’s insider info for you. Too many runners trying to beat the system. Rumor is, they’re taking care of it this time. Race organizers want to send a clear message to cheaters.”
    Since he brought it up, I think I might ask the Whistler about the secret. But the announcer is calling the soldiers to attention. In unison, they ramrod their muskets.
    â€œRunners, take your marks!” Musket tips lower, aim at the gray dawn just above the tree line. We freeze in the best lunge positions we can manage in our limited space. I hear the Whistler pushing air out between his teeth. Shi you , shi you . And then the muskets fire.
    The early miles are a study in managed restraint. With experience, you learn to control the rush of adrenaline, run slower than you feel. The newbies are already passing the front-runners, thinking they must be some kind of athletes. Be frugal with that lamp oil, I want to tell them, it’s a long night ahead.
    The first two miles, you think about elbows. How to find room for yours, how to protect yourself from the jabs of others. Safest to stay beside a Snuggly runner, though I’ve not seen one yet this morning. Backpacks are bobbing all around me—everything from tiny pouches that fit into smalls of backs to one statue so large the guy rolled it up in sleeping bags and lashed it, with ropes, to his bare torso. There are always showcase runners like this, who make things more difficult for themselves. At the Country Music Marathon in Nashville, I saw a man running with a two-by-four across his shoulders—this in addition to a life-sized baby orangutan bobbing in his front carrier. And during the Atlanta Marathon, a woman with a bronze two-headed Weimaraner on her back pushed a double jog stroller piled high with books.
    Above us the sky is slate, tinged pink just above the trees. On either side of the road are granite monuments the size of refrigerators. They’re gray-white, rough-edged, with engraved metal plaques screwed onto their fronts. Behind me, the Whistler has started to emit a rhythmic scree sound, which—contrary to what the people interviewed for the Runner’s World article said—is neither inspiring nor endearing. I veer off-course to check out one of the plaques and let the Whistler pass.
    Pennsylvania, 77th Regiment, Veteran Infantry, 24th Brigade, 3rd Division, 70th Army Corps. A man squats behind the monument, hugging his knees and pressing his back into the stone like he wants to merge with it. The top of his head is bald and shiny with sweat. On the ground in front of him is a bulging school-sized backpack.
    He looks up. “What mile is this?”
    â€œThree,” I say.
    â€œKnew I’d never make it to five.” He looks down at the backpack. “I don’t think they noticed when I took it off.”
    â€œYeah,” I say, “but you might want to put it back on before they find you.”
    â€œI’m through,” he says. “Didn’t train. I only signed up to get this”— he toes the pack—“piece-of-shit flying horse. Thing’s ceramic. And I’m a goddamn news anchor.”
    He looks up at me like he’s just remembered something. “You recognize me, right? Channel Five?”
    â€œListen,” I say, looking around to make sure no one’s watching, “you want me to put it on for you?”
    â€œOh, God,” the man says. He changes position so that he’s on his knees, then lowers his face to the ground like a suppliant. The tread on his running shoes is bright blue. With one hand he beckons me to come closer. I squat beside him. “It’s the wings,” he whispers. “They’re fucking painted.”
    The