Run into Trouble

California.”
    “Did he mention the million dollars?”
    “He managed to toss that in. And he emphasized the tax free part. Although I’m not sure how he’s going to manage that. One thing I’ve learned since I’ve been in the States is that taxes are inevitable, just like they are in jolly old England, and just like it says in the saying.”
    “I suspect he’s going to pay additional money to the winners to cover the taxes. Although, if he does that, the additional payment becomes taxable, and he’ll have to give more money to pay those taxes. And then—”
    “I get your point. It goes on forever. Well, I’ll let you be the calculator for our team. You always were more calculating than I was.”
    ***
    “We missed you at dinner last night.”
    The man avoided looking at Drake’s bandaged face.
    “I heard it was a lot of fun.”
    He shook hands with the eighth or ninth runner he had just met. He thought this one called himself Glen. The names and faces blurred together, although he realized that their body types were similar—thin and not too tall. Not one was over six feet, and the shortest had only an inch on Melody who stood about five and one-half feet. In contrast, Drake cleared six feet by a couple of inches and had a stockier build.
    One of the runners had a name that sounded familiar: Tom something-or-other. Drake mentioned this to Melody who was standing beside him, also trying to learn the names.
    “Tom Batson. He’s the only Californian ever to win the Boston Marathon.”
    “I should know that.”
    “After what you’ve been through, it’s a wonder you remember your own name. These are serious runners. Even if you were healthy, we wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”
    Peaches had brought them to Border Field State Park. Drake didn’t know it until he swung himself off the bus using mostly his arms, but Casey had ridden on the bus with them. He was wearing runner’s clothes, and he was going to run with them today. Fred had driven separately. There were no reporters here at the boundary between the United States and Mexico.
    Fred herded the runners over to the Mexican Border Monument, a marble obelisk proclaiming the friendship of the United States and Mexico, and took pictures of Casey and the runners. The ugly metal and wire border fence extended on either side of the monument and into the ocean. Drake could see a section of Tijuana through the fence, complete with a bullring, which contrasted to the barrenness on the U.S. side.
    Casey addressed the group. “I realize that this is an inauspicious start to a grand enterprise, but you’ll receive a proper sendoff this afternoon at the Coronado Bridge. So let’s get going. We’re going to run up the beach for awhile before we hit the road. There may be some swampy places, but we’re runners, and we don’t mind getting our feet wet, right?”
    Everybody echoed, “Right.”
    “Okay, follow me.”
    Casey set off along the sand at a moderate pace. The runners, all wearing shorts and singlets with Running California printed on them, easily kept up with him. Drake’s clothes had been delivered to his room by the taciturn Peaches. Only his running shoes were his own. Fortunately, he had been wearing them yesterday. If by some miracle he was able to continue, he would have to buy at least one more pair of shoes and break them in as they went.
    Drake and Melody started behind the others. At first, Drake could hardly walk, let alone run, but after a while he loosened up a little and accelerated to a slow trot. Melody floated effortlessly beside him.
    She watched him closely. “You’re looking a little better. How do you feel?”
    “Like somebody is sticking pins into my voodoo doll.”
    The cloudless sky proclaimed that it was a California August—summer at its peak. How could anybody feel bad on such a beautiful day?
    Surprisingly, within a few minutes Drake felt better. The movement helped. Running elevated his spirits, as it often did. Producing endorphins, or something. They sped up to a jog. He and Melody chatted about inconsequential things. His problems seemed to melt away. He almost forgot that someone might be trying to kill him.
    They splashed through shallow water as Oneonta Slough lazily joined the ocean, but wet feet were par for the course for marathoners. Running on sand didn’t jolt his back as much as running on a hard surface, but the tradeoff was that it required more effort because the sand gave beneath his