Harlan's Race

toes on the line. “... Three ..
    CRACK! went Mason’s pistol.
    We leaders surged forward like a breaking dam, with that river of people rolling after us.
    The 5-K course meant that a little more than 3.06 miles lay ahead. We’d be running counterclockwise around the loop. Now and then I glanced at my watch, tracking our pace. We were already sweating in those Kevlar shirts, running easy, at the head of the men’s pack. That thunder of shoes on pavement was behind us. We were riding just ahead of it, like surfers on the slope of a giant wave. Already the field was breaking up into the men’s pack, then the women’s pack, then a mixed pack of slower women and men, and the plodders and wheelchairs and oldsters stringing out in the rear.
    My knees felt quivery. Suddenly, as I remembered to think of my psych, Muse was there inside of me, running light and effortless, like a boy. He steadied me. I was Muse now. Efficient breathing. Smooth movement. Adrenaline pumping. Relentless purpose. The good sweat sleeking me.
    So much to think about. Eyes scanning a little to track Vince and Michael and Joe Park and other runners. Michael was in the pack behind us. Everybody’s breaths were exploding rhythmically around us, like a huge herd of dolphins. Vince and I were running a gauntlet — a thousand sniper hides going by that Chino had missed. The hit could come from anywhere. That maze of green pressed on us suffocatingly, from both sides of the road. It teemed with ominous movement. I forced my mind to focus, here and there seeing a man sitting slumped or standing slouched
    — our Watchers.
    We went through the first mile in 4:20.
    “Too fast,” I panted.
    Vince ignored me.
    “Back off, stupid,” I barked.
    This time, he eased off. Now he was moving like a wolf on the hunt, steady in his rage, sitting back in that mental place where he nursed his kick.
    Hide A was just ahead, around the next bend.
    Vince and I found ourselves running at the front of the men’s pack — everybody else was hanging back and letting us set the pace. For once, we were front runners by default.
    As we rounded that curve, just short of the two-mile mark, Hide A came into sight.
    Piss-off or no piss-off, I wasn’t going to fail in my duty to Vince. So I moved ahead of him — right on the line of fire, between Vince and the gun muzzle that I assumed was there, 70 yards away. Were the crosshairs centered on my temple, my heart, the finger squeezing the trigger? The shooter swinging the gun barrel slowly, tracking us along with frustration, hoping for the opening to Vince’s head, so he could drop him like a deer? Was it my imagination? Would the shooter get pissed off, and decide to dump me instead? Would my world suddenly go dark?
    As we approached the rocky promontory, sweat rolled down me. I drifted back, little by little, staying on that deadly line. As we passed the hide, I was right at Vince’s side.
    Then we were past Hide A, and I was drifting back farther, staying on the line of fire, staying on it. I counted our strides till I knew we were well out of rifle range.
    Joe Park made his move now — he pulled ahead of us. Michael and two boys in UCLA shirts went with him. Michael was looking good, moving with his gull ease. Vince and I made the decision to stay right where we were.
    The second mile was a 9:01.
    As we rounded the next curve, and Hide A went out of sight behind us, I felt a rush of relief, and pulled up to Vince’s side again. We exchanged quick looks, but didn’t waste effort talking. I was feeling the effort of keeping up with a world-class 29-year-old. The extra 19 ounces of the Kevlar shirt were dragging me down. Passionately I drew on Muse’s strength.
    One mile and a sixth to go.
    Suddenly Michael and the two UCLAs looked ragged. Park had burned them off, and we were reeling them in. More and more spectators crowded here, and we raised a bow-wave of applause as we went through.
    ‘Vince ... hey, get going!”
    “Hang in there, Joe!”
    “jQue rico, mami!” from some Latino.
    Was LEV. waiting here somewhere?
    The crowd was thicker, applause louder. All those innocent people didn’t have a clue what a few of us feared. I prayed none of them would die in some insane firefight. Was it my imagination, or did I see Denny’s baseball cap somewhere?
    Michael and the UCLAs fell back to join Vince and me. Then the UCLAs came unglued completely, and dropped behind us. Michael was running right on the other side