The Boston

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The Boston

By

Lazarus Barnhill

Cut Above Books

Published by Second Wind Publishing, LLC.

Kernersville

Cut Above Books

Second Wind Publishing, LLC

931-B South Main Street, Box 145

Kernersville, NC 27284

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2014 by Lazarus Barnhill

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

First Cut Above edition published

December, 2014

Cut Above Books, Running Angel, and all production design are trademarks of Second Wind Publishing, used under license.

For information regarding bulk purchases of this book, digital purchase and special discounts, please contact the publisher at www.secondwindpublishing.com

Cover design by Stacy Castanedo

Manufactured in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-938101-57-1

Author’s Note

Early on I decided that all the books and stories I wrote needed to stand on their own; that I would never write a preface or introduction to any of my works. Well, never say never. Circumstances beyond the writing of this book compel me to begin with an author’s note. This novel was conceived in the fall of 1998 and completed in 2009, years prior to several events that would have impacted the story arc of the narrative.

For one thing, The Boston was written before an American, Meb Keflezighi, won the Boston Marathon. This novel refers frequently to the dearth of American male winners of the race, and specifically to native born American runners. Let me state emphatically, Meb Keflezighi is an American runner and the running community is proud that he became our new Boston champion on April 21, 2014.

The book was also written prior to the world marathon record being broken at the Boston Marathon on April 18, 2011, by Kenyan Geoffrey Mutai (2:03:02). The conventional wisdom to that amazing day was that the Boston course was an unlikely place to run at such a pace; that thinking is expressed by characters in the novel.

Obviously, the book was written before the tragic events of April 15, 2013, when three people were killed and more than 260 injured by two bombs exploding at the marathon finish line. For a century the greatest road race of all, The Boston has now taken on an ever greater poignancy.

In the face of all these events, I wondered if the book should ever be submitted for publication at all. Then came the final unexpected happening that persuaded me The Boston should be printed: the death of Coach Cindy. The character Cindy Bartholomew who recurs throughout the novel is based upon a life-long friend of mine, Coach Lynda Tamblyn, who died suddenly on November 8, 2014. Lynda was a high school athletic coach, a writer and editor, an insightful counselor and a cherished friend. It’s fitting that she live again in the tribute contained for her in these pages.

Accordingly, this book is dedicated to these great souls:

Meb Keflezighi, American Boston Marathon Champion

Geoffrey Mutai, World Record Breaker at the Boston Marathon

Krystle Marie Campbell, Lu Lingzi, Martin William Richard, who died watching the Boston Marathon

Coach Lynda L. Tamblyn, Coach Cindy

—Laz Barnhill

Chapter 1

"A clear, crisp April morning in New England. A picture-perfect day for the running of the Boston Marathon. Hello, welcome to DST’s broadcast of the world’s most famous road race. My name is Jim Vernon, your host, and I’m very fortunate in two respects today. First, I’ll be announcing this race from the lead vehicle. DST cameras are not only stationed all along this legendary 26.2 mile course, but today we’ll be riding a camera truck in front of the lead group of male runners, tracking them as they run.

"And that’s where my second bit of good fortune comes in. I’ll be sitting beside one of the great names in American track and field, Massey Abbott, internationally renowned coach of the Bowman University Bengals. Coach Abbott has guided the Bengals to two NCAA Track and Field championships and of course has the four NCAA Cross Country titles. Welcome, Coach. I’m privileged to be sitting beside you here only moments before the start of the race. Let me put you on the spot—who will win the Boston Marathon men’s title today?"

"Thank you, Jim. I’m glad to be here. This is going to be fun, actually being on the road in front of the runners. Being this close, we should be able to tell a lot about them as the race progresses.

"As to who is going to win this race on the men’s side, you would think that a fellow as old as I am and having been a coach at the college level for forty years like I have—I would be wise enough to take the smart and easy way out and not make a prediction. After all, the Boston is history’s premier marathon. Year to year you always have the elite runners in the world competing. Today is certainly no exception. Still, I’m going out on a limb to predict the winner because I think it would be foolish not to. I think we’re going to see the Ethiopian Conno Etubu breeze to a victory today."

"Etubu, the Olympic champion?"

"Yes. Etubu has three of the four best marathon times in the world over the last twelve months. He is certainly fit and just at his peak for the race. I expect there will be a lead group of six or eight runners that will hang together until mile fourteen or fifteen. A couple may go out with him from there, but honestly, I don’t think anyone will be able to keep pace with him after seventeen or eighteen miles."

"I understand he’s come within about twelve seconds of the world record in the marathon."

"He has, Jim. That’s true. Now this isn’t a course that is very amenable to a world-record time, but we might see Etubu break the Boston record today."

"Now, Coach Abbott, you’ve already answered this question, I suppose, but I have to ask it because in a twenty-six mile race, there are a lot of things that can happen. You can’t rule out a twisted ankle or dehydration. So suppose something derails Conno Etubu. The question most of our viewers want to know is whether or not an American runner has the chance to win the Boston Marathon this year."

"Huh. Uh, I’m sorry, Jim. The answer is no. If Etubu were to drop out of the race, there are about six Kenyans—especially Thomas Kempi—who I expect to finish second today—as well as Silvio Garza, the Argentinian, who can run a sub 2:09. I don’t think we have an American who can come within a minute of that. Frankly, I don’t see a natural-born American in the top ten."

"Ouch, Coach. That’s gotten to be a sad but familiar refrain for us over the last twenty years."

"Twenty-five."

"We’ll be back in a few moments for a preview of the women’s side of the race. We’ll actually have a camera truck following the ladies today as well, with coverage from Tricia Beeman and three-time Boston women’s champion Starr Toler. Back after this message."

As he woke up, his first awareness was that of not feeling his left leg at all. He wondered, in his sedated haze, if somehow the surgery had gone wrong and they had amputated it instead of repairing his knee.

Eventually Ron’s eyes began to flutter open and shut. Glancing down the bed he could see his left foot, alongside his right, protruding beneath the sheet. He closed his eyes and dozed.

In the hours that followed he slept, awoke without coming fully to consciousness, and drifted back to sleep. At times he was aware of people coming into his room—nurses and technicians he supposed—looking at him, and more often the equipment hooked up to him, though he did not look at them. He dreamed. Strange morbid dreams: he was running on crutches; he was sitting down and his knee came apart; he was in a race, but unable to run.

At a point he heard something with clarity. It was Marianne’s voice. I’m going to get some lunch, Ron.

He opened his eyes, surprised to see her standing above his bed. How long have you been…? His mouth had a terrible woolen taste and dryness.

A couple hours.

He sighed, his eyes closing involuntarily. Sorry I’m not much company.

Once again he dozed. Then a young woman’s insistent voice woke him.

Mr. Jerdin.

Yes. He opened his eyes. It was easier this time. He was more awake.

I’m Iris. Your nurse.

Dressed in royal blue scrubs, the black woman was not much older than he was. She gazed at him with an expectant expression.

How are you feeling?

…Sleepy.

Time to wake up. We got something for you to eat here.

Sure enough, a plastic tray sat on the mechanical table protruding across his bed. As the nurse pressed the button to elevate his head, the items on the tray came into view: a child-sized carton of milk, some congealed cubes of red Jell-O, a small plastic bowl of something he guessed to be banana pudding, and soda crackers.

He sighed. How is my ACL?

Reattached. She was filling out a form.

Did the surgery go okay?

I’m not the doctor, Mr. Jerdin. I’m not supposed to dispense any medical information to you. But if I don’t miss my guess, Dr. Watterly is going to come in this afternoon with six residents trailing along behind him and brag about how perfect the operation was. He’s going to tell you your knee will be better than ever. She closed the plastic folder and slid it back into its holder on the back of the door. Of course, when the anesthetic gets completely out of your system, your knee will not feel better than new. It will not feel fixed. It will feel awful. You’re going to think they took it, turned it around and stuck it back on backwards.

…How long until I can run again?

Run? She opened his little milk carton and put the folding straw in it. I’m not any kind of expert on that, Mr. Jerdin. I will tell you two things. First, the people we see back here who have problems after their operations are people who push the envelope. They try to do too much too soon. And the second thing is, don’t underestimate the severity of the surgery you had. ACL is a pretty significant repair.

He sighed. I guess the doctor will tell me.

Speaking of running, I saw you run. She was checking the drip of the IV bag on the pole beside him.

You did?

Um hmm. I was getting my advanced orthopedic certification up at Duke. My boyfriend at the time was on the track team.

Duke. Ah. That explains your blue outfit.

A smile crossed her face. It was a pretty big meet. All the ACC teams were there.

That was the conference championship last spring. I ran the 10,000, plus a couple relays.

You were awesome. You ran away from everybody. Practically the only one who could stay with you was that other guy on your team—Mr. Tall-and-Skinny.

Oh. He chuckled. Darrin Maxwell…Yeah. I raced him two years before I could beat him. He glanced at her. I was supposed to be a favorite for a conference cross country championship this fall. Then in the spring there are the Olympic trials. That’s…seven months from now? The question in his voice was less about the length of time before the trials than his ability to run in them.

Don’t ask me, Mr. Speedy.

Three sharp raps sounded on the door of his room.

Are you ready for a visitor? the nurse asked.

Visitor?

Yeah. Hospital staff and family members never knock.

Ron stared at the door. Come in.

Immediately the door swung open and—dressed in his perpetual green and yellow knit shirt and khakis—Massey Abbott came into the room. Ron was surprised he didn’t have on his ball cap or the whistle around his neck. Instead his coach was carrying a manila folder pressed against his side.

The nurse moved quickly to the door. Push the button if you need me. And she was gone.

Abbott stationed himself at the foot of the bed, gazing down on him with the familiar, constant expression of impatient dissatisfaction.

Hey, Coach.

Hello, Ron. How are you feeling?

He shook his head. I’m not feeling anything yet. They say I will when the medicine wears off.

Seen the doctor yet?

No.

The coach nodded. He dropped the manila folder on the adjustable table beside the little food tray.

Neither of them spoke.

You put us in a bad way, Ron, Massey said at last. Our cross country and track teams, I mean. We only have six full-scholarship athletes and you’re one of them. Now we won’t have you for the fall or the spring on account of that little stunt of yours.

He shook his head. I didn’t pull any stunt. I didn’t do anything wrong.

Massey’s great, shaggy eyebrows arched. "You remember your scholarship agreement? It said you wouldn’t