Harlan's Race

cry about sin and Hell. That was when I finally saw their faces. They were Chris and I.
    I struggled awake, in a spell of deep anguish, to find Vince’s body laying reassuringly beside me. I lay there thinking. Something about the old Chris thing, the adolescent guilt and secrecy, the moral conflict, still went so deep in me, that I hadn’t healed it yet. What had I missed? What could I do?
    Vince stirred, hand going to the alarm clock, just before it went off at 5:30 a.m.

TWENTY-TWO
    September 9, 1981 The Memorial 5-K
    .^^.t 6 a.m., Harry knocked on our door.
    “Well?” we asked him, hoping against hope that an arrest had been made during the night.
    “Chino hasn’t been in touch,” Harry shrugged.
    Harry was ready to run, if he had to — in woodsy colors, old jeans and Pumas, his own favorite running shoes. Today was a no-shit security day. But as licensed bodyguards, he and Chino had to be more discerning than cops about whether they’d pull a gun. And both of them liked to keep things simple. Today, all that Harry carried was a knife, and his smallest-size automatic. He wore the gun concealed inside a light windbreaker, in a holster positioned where he could draw it fast.
    Vince hadn’t learned as much as I about real-life “professional security experts”. So he was shocked at what he thought was Harry’s casual approach to the danger ahead.
    “Jeez, Harry ... is that all you’re carrying?” my lover demanded as he pulled his Kevlar T-shirt over his head.
    Harry gave him a small, tense, patient smile.
    “Kid, if a single shot is fired today, we’ve failed,” he said. “And it’s always over in a couple of shots anyway. Move it, guys.”
    We threw our gear into Harry’s old VW van, and headed across town. By this hour, Chino would be out of hiding at Griffith Park, and over at the race command area, making sure that our gay vet Watchers were in place. Russell wasn’t going to be there — the old barn owl had judged it better to be discreetly out of sight. So he was in Palm Springs, staying in touch with his field guys by phone. He would come up to L.A. tonight.
    As we wove through the light traffic, Harry gave us more of an update.
    “Denny Falks has made a move closer,” he said. “Russell’s guy says he’s right outside of town, near Gorman. He’s supposedly attending a SWAT clinic at some rifle range there.”
    Vince was cracking his knuckles — something he never did except before a big race.
    Me, I felt like I was sweating molten gold.
    Suddenly the old friction grated between me and Vince.
    “So you won’t speak at the awards?” Vince asked.
    “No. But I’ll make sure you survive to get one,” I growled.
    “Sure, sure,” Vince mumbled, disgusted.
    6:45 a.m.
    At the park, we drove past the big banner reading BILLY SIVE MEMORIAL 5-K. Like a windsock at an airport, it hung dead quiet in the drifting fog. No wind meant that the shooter, if he showed up, had a few more digits of percentage for a hit.
    This intimate little road race was nothing like the Olympic Games. Pavement and lawn teemed with a growing crowd where athletes and spectators mingled, laughing and horsing around. Those were the days when the national running craze was getting off, and major road races just starting to pull big entries. As I recall, the Boston Marathon was pulling several thousand by then, and the New York
    City Marathon was close behind. The crowd was bigger than we’d hoped — maybe we’d go over 1000 entries after all.
    Placards shook jubilantly in the air. WE REMEMBER BILLY and SIVE LIVES and GAY IS GOOD. A few religious rightists stood behind police barricades, silent, grim — we’d see more of them in the future, as they picketed abortion clinics and Gay Pride events. Their signs said GAY IS BAD. NOT GOOD, etc. Near the picnic tables, where runners sipped free herb tea and coffee, a sound van with a bullhorn was blasting those damned disco rhythms that seemed to be the gay anthem by now. A Valhalla video crew was walking around — Paul and Darryl wanted footage for the record.
    As we passed the empty awards platform, two club members were at a table, laying out those beautiful medals
    — 30 of them. Today the gold from Billy’s ring would come alive on the warm breasts of boys and girls, seniors, handicapped, anybody who needed hope. A lump filled my throat.
    Vince was simmering with anger at me.
    Beyond, about 75 feet away, the Front Runners’ food concession and the row of