The Boot Race

Memories from July 6, 2004

It's a hot day, but nothing like last year when the winds felt like dragon's breath. Five minutes before the race begins, my mouth is as dry as the summer air. I ask the person behind me if I might have a drink of his water, promising not to mouth the rim. He obligingly hands me the bottle, and I swallow heartily. My heart has begun to pound a torrid rhythm as I watch the heats flash across the hard, black, unforgiving pavement. I think inwardly that there is no way that I can hope to keep up with these people - they're way too fast. I ask for another drink, promising that this will be the last. Seeds of doubt creep into my mind like plants emerging from the ground after the first monsoons have soaked the hard desert scrabble. My heart jolts a little faster. Knots of worry ball in my thighs like charlie horses and my legs ache like I've already ran a mile. The announcer asks the next group to move to the starting tape.

Here we go, I think to myself as I move to the line. My breath is coming in short, hungry gulps as I gauge the 100 yards in front of me. I look to my left, to my right, to assess the competition. It does not look like as strong a field as last year when I came in third. There are a lot of people I know that I can beat having never raced them before. I do have some advantages after all, not the least of which is my prodigious work ethic; I train hard for this event. And I'm not exactly slow either; part of the genetic material given by my parents includes a coding for being able to really get the legs flying. I've always been fast, I've just never tested that statement in a mono y mono competition - until last year, that is.

I visualize last year's event as a prelude to what is about to happen. Last year I had put in so much time and effort that my confidence was bordering on hubris. I knew that I was prepared as I pulled the thick leather boots over my feet, making sure that they slipped in just right, then strapping the leather tight to my legs with every do-it-yourselfer's panacea - duct tape. I tore across the 100 meters of pavement in wicked speed, running neck-and-neck with someone to my right all the way to the finish. I had come in third, but second was so close that the judges didn’t know who to crown. It finally came down to asking the assembled masses. In a surreal two minutes, I watched as the crowd argued over who it was that had crossed the line second. I ended up with the third place trophy, but it was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my adult life. That day I smiled from the moment the race ended until I went to bed. I was probably still smiling then. First place? That went to a man who comes up from Tucson every year; he's in a league of his own, eating up the pavement with giant strides that make mine look like a baby's first, hesitant steps. He blew away the field by some 7 yards.

Thirty seconds until race time, the judge announces. My mind is a flurry of activity, my mouth like parchment. I drop into a 100 meter racer's stance, low to the ground with the left and right feet separated by a full yard. All of the other runners take a more conventional upright stance.

ON YOUR MARK - my hands are on the tape line, legs at the ready. GET SET - my body tightens like a bow string, ready to be plucked. BANG - the gun fires and we all break from the blocks. I fire out like a steam catapult, but slip just enough on the smooth surface to lose my advantage. At twenty yards I have gained back what was lost and am cruising along at full clip. The race, I already see, is a two-man event between me and the man from Tucson. But again, he is mowing through the course with unlikely grace for a man so tall. At forty yards I know that, barring a muscle pull, this is a race for second.


With thirty yards left, I begin to tire. A year ago I gained speed throughout the race, all the way to the finish line. This year, with both teaching and taking a class, my condition is not nearly so honed. There is a hitch in my giddy-up that is barely perceptible to anyone but me. It is a testament to the remarkable condition I was in last year. Then I make a fatal error, looking back to assess my chances. Fortunately, no one is even close. With twenty yards left I know that second place is assured. Ahead of me is the man from Tucson whose stride seemingly chews up the pavement in big swatches.

I cross the finish line, much more tired than last year, and not nearly as pleased. What could I have done had I been in the condition that I was last year I think as I slow down. Second place is not so bad though, especially considering the circumstances.

It's a full year until I'll run again. The race is always a springboard for the following year, a shot of mind adrenaline that will hold and push me. One year. What is one year? I'll be a year older? There will be new competition next year, especially considering the fact that I showed obvious weakness. But they have no idea the person I am.

I will not be weak next year. I will work harder than ever before. I will try to beat the man from Tucson through sheer will and determination. It's possible; Frazier beat Ali in his prime. I can do it.

This is my promise.