By Jack Beatty

By Jack Beatty

The wind blew, cutting like an icy knife through my tiny shorts and even smaller shirt. All around me, people were buzzing about in various states of nervousness, a gentle hum of adrenaline and fear contrasting the peace of the morning sky. I looked dead ahead, breathing heavily as I shook, although whether from nerves or the freezing temperatures, I couldn’t tell. All of a sudden, a disembodied voice rose above the others like a phoenix from the ashes. “Nervous, kiddo?” I choked as I whipped around, trying to restart my shocked heart, to see Mr. Blanchette standing behind me. “N-no s-s-sir,” I stammered. At that very moment, as if planned by some sadistic deity whose personal mission was to torment me, a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Runners approach the line.” It was on.

I should probably explain the events leading up to this moment of unbridled fear. You see, when I was in grade four, I made the ever-foolish decision to join the cross-country team. Despite my very moderate level of effort, I was a consistent last-place finisher, often burning out in the first 500 metres or so. By the end of the season, I was the only junior not on the junior team of 6. For all intents and purposes, one would think this to be the end of my running career; I certainly did. What kind of a psychopath runs for anything other than pure torment? I was all prepared to hang up my shoes and walk into the sunset, never to be seen in those ridiculous outfits again, but fate, it seemed, had a different plan. Just eight months later, I was dragged back by the siren’s call to sign up for the first year of Friday Morning Fitness.

As one may expect, Friday Morning Fitness wasn’t nearly as difficult as the official cross-country team. As one may not expect, it was far worse. You see, when you’re the 7th junior on a six-man, CISAA-winning team, there’s not a whole lot of expectations. Sure, I had to show up to practice and gear up for meets, but beyond that, I didn’t really need to do much. There was always a back-up group, or another teacher, or an easier option, or something that ensured I would never have to go through the difficult journey of “improving.” Friday Morning Fitness, however, was a different story, and it was all due to the ever-present Mr. Blanchette. Whenever I would try to take my position comfortably in the back, there he was. Whenever I would try to cut a lap, there he was. Whenever I did something as simple as slow down to catch my breath, there he was! It was impossible for him to always be there, and yet he was, shouting encouragement, clapping, or going as far as to tell me to keep it up. The nerve. Every week I promised myself it would be my last, and yet somehow, every Friday at 7a.m. I was there.

By the end of the year, I was… passable. I certainly wasn’t the best, nor was I the most committed. I didn’t even work the hardest, but I could generally finish most runs without throwing up — although I often cut the runs shorter than I’d like to admit. Just a month and a half away from the end of school when I was ready to put all this running garbage behind me, Mr. Blanchette came to me with a slightly different plan. The exchange went something like this.

“Jack, I want you to run the Sporting Life 10k.”

“No,” I replied.

“Come on,” he countered.

“No,” I reiterated.

“You’ll do great,” he coaxed.

“Still no, Sir.”

“Your dad already signed you up.”

“Well, ok,” I sighed, defeated.

The Sporting Life 10k? The name alone sent tingles of fear down my spine like electric jolts. There was no way I could run that far, especially not in a race. I’d figure out a way out of it. I had to, or I’d be doomed.

From that point forward, life took a sudden and unexpected turn into full-on race preparation. My days were spent reading through first-hand race accounts or scanning the running course, although why, I couldn’t tell you. My Fridays, as had become usual, were still spent exhaustedly pushing to not let anyone pass me (a task which was often futile as most runners were generally two laps ahead of me, and lapping me for the third time). However, there was a new fervour to the air. A new energy was building inside me without my knowledge–an energy that, against all my better judgment, simply wanted to run. That energy was, as I’d discover nearly two years later, my competitive spirit pushing me on long past the time when my body gave out. I was getting ready, and I was doing it quickly.

Just two weeks before race day, as I dragged my exhausted, brutalised and sweat-drenched corpse back to the building that had become my great liberator, I had a sudden inexplicable realization; I had just run 8.5 kilometres – a moderately impressive feat to be sure, especially by my standards, but still a kilometre-and-a-half from what I’d need to run on race day, and I was beat. Once again (as had become standard whenever I thought of that race), I was filled with the lead weight of dread pouring through my system. I was doomed. I couldn’t run another step, much less another 1.5 kilometres. I nearly puked as the realization set in. I couldn’t do this. I was about to embarrass myself by coming dead last in a race of 10,000 people. By God, it was cross-country season all over again. I could almost hear Mr. Mazurek in my head shouting at me as I crossed the finish line. What was I going to do?

My heart was pounding as I passed the 3K mark. Man, did I ever get going way too fast. When I started, I was leading a group of six RSGC runners, but steadily, everyone had fled ahead, leaving me, Mr. Kearsey, and Jonathon Munroe. Even so, we were making progress, easily within a six-minute kilometre when disaster struck. For those who don’t know, a 60-minute 10K isn’t necessarily a good time, and it would be closer to the lower end of mediocre. Be that as it may, I was striving for that 60-minute 10K when Mr. Kearsey uttered a horrifying sentence:  “I have to go to the bathroom.” Instantly, my mind began to race. Could I go in front? Would I even make it to the end without a supporter? How was I ever going to finish now? Who on earth goes to the bathroom 3K into a 10K run? Despite these thoughts, I knew in my heart what I had to do. I had to keep going forward. Unfortunately, my brain took a far different approach, and I found myself standing next to the porta-potties waiting for him, runners throwing their paper cups at me, assuming by my lack of movement that I was a volunteer. Five torturous minutes passed until, finally, he stepped out of the bathroom. It was back on.

I was running towards the finish line, my head down and sweat pouring. My breathing, long forgotten, accelerated further still to about six times a second in my desperate attempt to power through the crushing cramps I felt. I should have eaten more oatmeal. My teeth were gritted in pain while I pushed with my arms as if grabbing the distance ahead and forcing it behind me. I could see the clock. One hour, nine minutes and 23 seconds. I didn’t make my original goal, not by a long shot, but I’d be damned if I let that minute counter hit 10. I sped up, my head lolling onto my shoulders as my body forced every last piece of energy I had left to get past that finish line. One hour, nine minutes and 48 seconds. Just shy of an hour and 10 minutes of pure agony, but I had made it. I beamed as I walked through the corral area, happy as a lark as I received my medal. I heard a “Good job” from behind me, and turned to see him, the one man who had been able to take a lazy, unmotivated kid like me, and turn me into a runner. “Thank you, Sir,” I replied, before collapsing to my knees. Never ever again. Until next year.