When Stephen had his own family, Rebecca enjoyed treating their household by bringing artisan breads on a somewhat regular basis. On weekends when Stephen left for the weekend to attend to his monthly National Guard duties, Rebecca made it a point to bring over a fresh loaf and spend an extra couple of hours helping and being a friend to Sarah. On more than one occasion when Rebecca knew he was having a tough time with work, life or family balance, she had been known to stop by early in the morning and treat Stephen to a warm breakfast sandwich made from bread so fresh it was still solidifying after its escape from the oven.
Stephen smiled at the thought of those early morning visits from his mother and supplemented the memory by fantasizing over the street bakery’s enticing aroma. With a deep breath, he took in the vivid image of a strip of maple soaked bacon, an over-easy egg and a thinly cut slice of longhorn cheddar cheese layered between two pieces of freshly baked rustic rosemary bread. The hairline slice of a knife caused the egg to flow a river of yolk along the ridges of ham and fill every crevasse of the bread.
Is that sweat or am I drooling?
Realizing that his daydream may not be best suited for the moment at hand he resolved that pulling over and taking a seat at the bakery might not be the best race strategy. He wasn’t overly concerned about the pace of his run and certainly not interested to see how fast he could go. Just a finish would suffice as a personal record, or “PR”, as many runners had described to him. Still, Stephen resolved to himself that a fifteen minute breakfast break might not be advisable at mile three. The commanding scent of freshly made biscotti and a steaming cup of a mocha-tinted espresso remained a tempting proposition.
Passing the bakery, Stephen saw a long stretch of people lingering along the street’s curb. As the sea of jogging bodies approached, the bystanders’ cheer began to rise. Stephen saw an opportunity to take a wide route in the hopes of getting out of the suffocating center. He stepped so close to the edge of the street that he had to sharply cut back in order to keep his next step from going onto the curb. He caught the eyes of a brightly dressed older woman standing on the curb and hollering while clapping her gloved hands. She had on a flannel long-sleeved shirt and thickly woven purple beanie cap. Her shoulders shrugged up as she shivered through each clap. Her encouraging holler from flushed cheeks released a plume of warm air as breath fogged out in front of her. Stephen thought about the absurdity of the moment and looked at the lady three feet away from him with confusion.
She is absolutely nuts for being out here this early in this cold just to yell at a bunch of people who should, frankly, have their own heads examined!
Feeling it was best to call the woman out for her lunacy, Stephen looked directly at her, opened his mouth and said, “Thank you!”
The frigid air and torrent wind was miraculously beginning to give way to a crisp, bright morning. For the first time Stephen considered the idea that frostbite may not overcome him after all. Periodically, a lagging gust of wind from the earlier system would come along and deliver cutting streaks to remind him that warmth had not yet overtaken the day. With the sun burning off the daybreak clouds, Stephen’s body was now able to fend off the gusts which had threatened to change his mind about the day’s plans. The wind now applied a more welcome breeze as hints of a clear day were slowly beginning to emerge.
Stephen had a steady stride going when he approached the first aid station. The path before him was checkered with random pods of teenagers handing out small cups of water to the runners as he approached a row of long white tables managed by a group of adults who filled up paper cups as quickly as possible. A handful of teenagers cheered Stephen on as he arrived at the station. He noticed several more tables set up which served energy drinks and some fruit. Slowing down to a brief pause at a table with a few spills of a purple sports drink, he graciously accepted a cup from a smiling but awkward teenage boy. He then took an orange from a petite teenage girl with an oversized smile, braces and a pleasant, outgoing personality. Stephen guessed, with a high degree of certainty, that she was the source of the boy’s morning awkwardness. Even more likely, she was the rationale behind the boy’s very presence on this frigid morning. As he navigated through the other runners and moved away from the table Stephen tossed his empty cup into a large trash can. The paper cup bounced off the far end, ricocheted up and dropped into the waste can. Apparently, he was the first to actually make that shot; evidenced by the fact that the asphalt around the can was the site of an intense battle in which the armies decimated one another with paper products. The entire area was covered with crumpled cups. Stephen guessed it was probably hard to see the massive blue can with the oversized silver spray painted letters marking the receptacle as T-R-A-S-H.
“Nice shot there! Banked it off the back,” a friendly voice came from up ahead.
Stephen smiled back. “Thanks. That’s actually what I came out here for today. I’ve been preparing for weeks just to make that shot. I’m done now. On my way home.”
“Well, in that case,” said the lean and aged man in the dark sweatshirt which made his bright-yellow beanie cap stand out even more than it normally would, “home’s just about 23 miles that way. The good news is that you’re going in the right direction.” His cap had a cartoon runner with a black cat atop the runner’s head with the word ‘Maniac’ stenciled above; Stephen reconciled that it was another oddity of the morning.
“That’s reassuring. I was afraid I still had a long way to go.” Stephen acknowledged the friendly chat as he began to pick his pace up again. He reasoned it best not to ask, stare or do anything else to bring attention to the man’s cap. As he thought back to the man with clown shoes, somehow the cultural oddities of race wear just didn’t stand out as all that strange anymore. Apparently, there were subcultures in the running community like these Maniacs. They had their own style and questionable levels of sanity must be part of the membership criteria.
“Hey there! You’re probably gonna want one of these in a little while.” Another man handed him a small gel packet marked ‘jet blackberry’.
“Yeah, thanks. Take care!”
“You’re doing great. Keep up the good work.” The man stepped back and began offering the gel packets to other runners.
Gel packs were not a foreign substance to Stephen. He had learned that part of the secret to completing a marathon was eating during the race. Endurance running was a calorie deficient sport and he knew how important it was to get back some of the energy he was burning. While not the best tasting meal, they were a great way to replenish electrolytes and proteins during a calorie-deficient sport like endurance running. Besides, in Stephen’s mind, few items could challenge the intestinal fortitude he had developed by eating the US Army’s lightweight field ration, the Meal, Ready-to Eat, or MRE. Though, his squad had generally referred to them as Meals, Rarely-Edible.