The Running Dream (33 page)

Since I’ve run the route during training, I know—the easiest stretch is behind us. I need to conserve. And in the back of my mind I’m saying,
Slow down. There’s no way you should be running nine thirties
.

But I don’t
want
to slow down.

I am having a great time.

The crowds are thick—people are cheering like crazy.

For Rosa, and for me.

“There she is! There’s that girl!”

“Go, Jessica! Go, Rosa!”

Mario and Gavin flap their clappers through the air, and Fiona toots her horn. “Thank you!” Rosa calls back, and waves like she’s in a parade.

Which I guess, in a way, she is.

As we pass through the residential section, the crowds thin out. There are only small pockets of people now. They call from their porches or stand on the sidewalks and tell runners, “You’re looking good! You’re doing great! Keep it up!”

Then the small pockets of people vanish as we run along the road through farmland. There are some cows, but they don’t moo, let alone cheer.

At first it’s very picturesque. The course has leveled out, the trees are lovely, and the river looks serene. But I’m very relieved to spot our mile-four pit crew, and it worries me.

Why am I this fatigued?

It’s Linzy Griggs and Shandall Norwood at the water station, and Linzy is bouncing up and down in her
TEAM ROSA
T-shirt. “There they are! There they are!” she cries.

“Looking good!” Shandall says, handing me a cup of Gatorade.

“Thanks.” I gulp the Gatorade and accept an energy gel.

“You’re almost halfway,” Linzy says. “You’re doing great!”

We press on, and I squeeze the gel into my mouth a little at a time as I run.

It tastes like chocolate frosting, and it revives me a little. When I’m done, Gavin takes my empty pouch from me and asks, “You doing okay?”

I nod, but it’s only halfhearted. “What’s our pace?”

“Ten thirties at the four-mile mark.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head.

“No wonder! I can’t keep this up. It’s killin’ me!”

He immediately drops back the pace. “Hey!” he calls up to Fiona and Mario. “We’ve gotta ease up a little.”

Fiona falls in beside me. “What’s hurting?”

“I’m okay,” I tell her. I keep my voice low so Rosa can’t hear. “I’ve only run this weight five miles before, and it took me about an hour. That’s, like, twelves, and we’re doing ten thirties!”

Fiona slows down even more. “This better?”

I nod, but it’s strange—it’s like the damage is done, and slowing down isn’t undoing it. My breathing won’t fall into a comfortable rhythm, my hips have an unfamiliar ache to them, and my arms feel very heavy.

When we reach and crest the Queensland Drawbridge, I am immensely relieved.

“Halfway there!” Fiona says, pepping me along.

“And a bit of downhill,” I say, grateful for gravity’s help with the wheelchair.

The mile-six water stop is in the middle of nowhere—an oasis in a desert of dried grass. And what’s even better than the oasis is that Annie and Giszelda are working the station.

“There they are!” Giszelda cries.

“Come ’n’ get it, you crazy people!” Annie shouts.

“Crazy doesn’t even begin to describe it! They’re nuts!”

“Wackos!”

“A runnin’ and rollin’ insane asylum!”

“Amen!”

We all laugh and get our cups. I actually don’t feel like drinking, but I hear Kyro’s voice in my head:
Be smart—stay hydrated and keep your fuel up
.

So I drink.

And I take an energy gel.

And I press on.

Six miles
, I tell myself.
Only four to go. One plus one plus one plus one
.

It feels a little fuzzy in my head. Like I’ve got the wrong number of ones. Like I’m so fatigued that I can’t even count to four.

One plus one plus one plus one.

And somewhere in my fuzzy mind I make a connection—that’s how everything is done.

One by one by one by one.

That’s how I got through losing a leg.

Minute by minute by minute by minute.

Hour by hour by hour by hour.

Day by day by day by day.

That’s how anybody makes it through anything.

So I dig in and decide that’s how I’ll face the miles ahead—one by one by one by one.

Something in that makes the pain easier to take, makes the effort easier to endure. And then, near the seven-mile mark, I realize we’re passing by the cemetery.

I think about seeing Lucy’s mom there the other morning.

I think about her making it through what had to be the hardest days of her life; how she had to take the minutes, the hours, the days, the months, one by one by one by one.

Suddenly I’m grateful that the ones I’m counting off are miles. Miles I’m
able
to run. Miles I asked for. Miles I’ve worked hard to face. My ones are a distance between me and victory, not days between me and tragedy.

Fiona’s in step beside me, and I pant out, “Lucy,” and nod up to the cemetery.

“Ohhhh,” she says, and her face crinkles with sadness.

“We miss you, Lucy!” I call up the hill.

“We miss you, Lucy!” Fiona calls too.

All of us glance at one another, then together we shout, “WE MISS YOU, LUCY!”

The next stretch brings us back into neighborhoods. There aren’t a lot of people out, but those who are, are loud and happy. Like the coffee has kicked in and the clapping is keeping them warm.

“GO, ROSA!” they shout, and then they realize that they’ve seen us on TV. “HEY—you’re those girls! Good for you! You show ’em! GO, GO, GO!!”

Mario and Gavin start up with their clappers again, and Rosa waves and giggles and shouts, “THANK YOU!” to everyone who cheers for us, and keeps me going by calling to me over her shoulder, “This is the best day of my life!”

With each block the crowds get thicker.

People are out on their balconies getting an aerial view.

Rosa waves and clicks her clapper, but I’m slumping again. And my hips are killing me.

“Mile eight!” Gavin calls, pointing ahead.

Two to go
, I tell myself.
One, and one more
.

I drink at the aid station, but only water. And although I try to eat the energy gel, I can’t stomach it.

The crowds grow noisier, but I turn inward. I feel like I’ve hit the Rigor Mortis Bend of the River Run. It’s only two more miles, but it’s payback time for the two first miles—every step from here on is at a slight incline.

People are shouting my name, Rosa’s name.

I see familiar faces.

I see my dad.

My mom.

Kaylee and her friends.

How did they get there?

I wave, I smile, but I don’t really have the energy to do either.

Sounds are murky—they’re having trouble making it through the pounding from inside.

I’m vaguely aware that we’re passing people.

Runners who are now walking.

But we’re being passed, too.

By men in grass skirts.

It’s okay
, I tell myself.
You’re doing great. Run strong, run strong, run strong.…

I don’t even see the nine-mile marker as we go by. Gavin points it out. “Only one to go!” he calls, but it’s like a ghost whispering in my ear.

My legs are lead.

My arms ache.

My hips are cramping, demanding I stop. Especially my left one. It’s an agonizing knot of pain.

And my stump—it’s hot.

Wet.

Angry.

Run strong, run strong, run strong.…

But I’m living step to step. I start counting them.

I get to fifty and start over.

Step by step by step by step.

A young girl runs out from the crowd, touches me, and dashes away before I even know she’s been there.

“GO, JESSICA!” I hear people shout.

“RO-SA! RO-SA! RO-SA!” they chant.

Then Fiona shouts, “There it is!”

I know what she means.

I look up; look out. There’s a red-and-white balloon arch only fifty yards ahead.

“The finish line!” Rosa cries. “The finish line!”

I try to soak in the happy sounds of her voice, the ecstatic clacking of her clapper. I try to remember why I did this.

“RO-SA! RO-SA! RO-SA!”

“JES-SI-CA! JES-SI-CA!”

I dig in, dig deep. The cheering helps me find a hidden reserve.

The balloon arch is growing larger.

The crowd louder.

Larger.

Louder.

I manage a weak wave, a smile.

And then, with a
chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp
, we’ve crossed over.

Over the finish line.

I’m aware that people are taking pictures.

I’m aware that the news crew is there.

I’m aware that Rosa is in seventh heaven; that random strangers are talking to her and treating her like a friend. “It
was great! Thank you!” she’s telling them as a race-day helper cuts the timing chip off my shoe.

I’m aware that my family and Kyro are there, telling me how proud they are.

I’m aware that we’re all making our way over to Regatta Park, where the breakfast celebration is being held.

It’s all sort of fuzzy in my head because I’m shaky and exhausted, but I’m also aware that I’m very, very happy. I’m surrounded by friends, by family, by my teammates and coach, and by warm, supportive strangers. They’ve all helped me in some way get over that finish line.

But as we gather in Regatta Park and help ourselves to scrambled eggs, orange juice, and bagels, I realize something.

That wasn’t a finish line for me.

Eight months ago it was a herculean effort to walk myself and my IV stand to the bathroom.

Today I ran my friend ten miles across her first finish line.

Eight months ago I couldn’t do anything.

This race has made me believe that there’s nothing I
can’t
do.

This is my new starting line.

The following people were invaluable in helping me through this fascinating, educational, and extremely emotional journey:

Greg “Pegleg Greg” Birkholz, a true survivor who focuses on what he has, not what he’s lost, and whose insider view and comments were very helpful.

Adele Schneidereit, who does indeed “inspire the world” with her accomplishments, her attitude, and her awareness campaign regarding cerebral palsy.

Greg “Sark” Sarkisian, track coach supreme and steadfast friend, who helped me fine-tune the track scenes.

John D. Hollingsead, CPO, whose cooperation and expertise were essential to the accuracy of this story.

Dana Cummings, executive director of the Association of Amputee Surfers, whose work with vets is amazing. I’ll never forget our run through town.

Samantha Ford, whose cheerful spirit and love of dance are inspiring.

Mark Stipanov, whose background in prosthetics was extremely useful as I was struggling to climb the learning curve.

My high school track buddies, who faced the winds and forged strong spirits circling the Oval of Pain.

I would also like to thank:

My husband, Mark Parsons, for rooting me around the many hard curves of this book, and for always being there when I stumble … or need to go for a run.

My editor, Nancy Siscoe, who, after twenty-seven books together, still really works at helping me shape my stories. Her input is always constructive and astute.

My agent, Ginger Knowlton, for helping me get through Rigor Mortis Bend.

Wendelin Van Draanen spent many years as a classroom teacher and is now a full-time writer. She is the author of many award-winning books, including the Sammy Keyes mysteries,
Flipped, Swear to Howdy, Runaway
, and
Confessions of a Serial Kisser
.

Ms. Van Draanen lives with her husband, two sons, and two dogs in California. Her hobbies include the “three R’s”: reading, running, and rock ’n’ roll.

Wendelin Van Draanen and her husband are also the founders of Exercise the Right to Read, a nationwide campaign designed to get kids reading and running and to help schools raise funds for their libraries. Ms. Van Draanen ran her first marathon when the campaign kicked off, and seeing athletes with disabilities running strong provided much of the inspiration for this book.