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

takes two strides for every one of hers. He’s holding on to her left shoulder strap.
    â€œYou’re young,” he’s saying. “Lots of miles left on those legs.”
    The girl is trying to pry the counselor’s hand off the left strap. The right strap is dangling off her shoulder.
    â€œTrust me, it gets easier,” the counselor says.
    â€œYou think this is hard for me?” she says. “I’m in better shape than most of these jog-bunnies. And my statue weighs, like, nothing.”
    â€œThen why quit?”
    â€œIt’s just stupid,” she says.
    â€œThe statues don’t mean anything,” he says.
    â€œThey’re totally sexist,” she says.
    â€œIt isn’t wise to make decisions during a race. Your feelings are false indicators.”
    â€œI had my doubts long before today,” she says. “Soon as I opened the box I knew what a farce this was going to be.”
    â€œIt’s worth it, to finish,” the counselor says. “To know you’re a real runner.”
    The girl has managed to slide the counselor’s hand down onto her upper arm.
    â€œYou ever finish a marathon?” she asks.
    â€œWe’re not called to race,” the counselor says, his voice so low I have to speed up and run alongside them to hear. “Only to help those who are.”
    I glance sideways. The girl is gorgeous—blond, high cheekbones, tiny turned-up nose.
    â€œLet go,” the girl says.
    â€œQuit, then,” the counselor says, “but keep your options open.”
    I run a few paces ahead of them. Behind me, I hear the muted crush of her mesh bag hitting the pavement.
    You hear a lot about the so-called runner’s high. Before I was a runner, I figured if there was such a thing, it would hit you like an injection. You’d be jogging along and zing —a sudden leap into euphoria, the overwhelming desire to jump for joy and shout hallelujah. But it’s not like that. It’s a gradual transition into a state of mental clarity. You don’t realize it’s happening until you’re there. For me it begins around mile eight. The smallest details become sharp. My senses open up and I can take everything in—telephone wires silhouetted against blue sky, layered bark on the trunk of a tree. The chuk-chuk-chuk of a woodpecker. By mile ten I no longer feel my feet touching the ground. It’s as if my mind has entered its own physical space, apart from my body, as if my body is dead but in no pain—never any pain, these middle miles. Because my body is gone, or more accurately, is on autopilot, my mind is free to roam. This separation of mind from flesh, spirit from matter, is what keeps me coming back for more, despite the fact that I keep bonking.
    During the high, it’s like something bigger is running me . If I were the sentimental type, I’d say that something is love. Because right now, mile eight, I want to tell every runner I pass how honored I feel to be a part of this fine gathering of trained athletes. I’ve stopped caring that my statue isn’t Authentic Art. I’m convinced, if I do happen to glimpse Authentic Art rising like holy fire from someone’s backpack, I won’t be jealous. I’ll be eager to admire and to praise. Maybe even to worship.
    If only this feeling would last the whole race.
    Miles nine through thirteen leave the battlefield and go through the city of Chickamauga. The town’s not pretty. It’s one long stretch of strip malls and gas stations, a Wal-Mart, some fast-food chains. A disconcerting number of Baptist churches. Spectators crowd the streets. Brass bands on corners play “Dixie” and “Sweet Home Alabama.” Orange cones and flashing police cars block off intersections. Golf carts buzz back and forth alongside us, keeping the crowds back. Staffers speak into megaphones: Stay behind the cones. Any assistance to runners is grounds for