I know you’re stuck outside of Phoenix
I know all about the shape you’re in
Well, I say we’re going nowhere
That’s exactly where we’ve been
Oh, well
You never can tell

— the prophet brent babb

—

I’m still reading the book about these people on a death march. They have to keep going at a 15:00 mile pace or they are shot to death. It’s an OK book and I’m thinking about how much it resembles the races I find myself in these days.

And then.

I REALIZE THIS BOOK IS ABOUT ME!!!!!!!

At first I think maybe it’s a coincidence. But the protagonist is named Garraty. My name is Gary. Char, our beloved 90-year-old friend who knew me better than myself, always called me Rat, because I reminded her of the Pearls Before Swine antihero. I was never sure if that was meant as a compliment or not. Although her other pet name for me was Asshole, so draw your own conclusions.

Gary Rat. Garraty. Coincidence?

His thoughts mirror mine during these silly races.

He’s there, Garraty thought, sure he is. Where Stebbins said we’d go if we stuck with it long enough. How deep inside himself is he? Fathoms? Miles? Light-years? How deep and how dark? And the answer came back to him: too deep to see out. He’s hiding down there in the darkness and it’s too dark to see out.

That’s basically a description of the Dawaulter pain cave in a nutshell, the place where all ultra people fear and long to live.

It all points toward the race. The evil organizer of the Long Walk in the book is the Major. The evil organizer of the race this weekend is the Jamil. THEY HAVE BASICALLY THE SAME NAME if you scramble the letters and change a couple of them.

The Long Walk is in Maine. The Death March is in (Nardini) Manor. They give the Walkers water and creepy food out of tubes. Ditto the Saturday event.

But still. Just coincidence, right?

And then I notice. The Long Walkers each have a bib number. Garraty’s is Number 47.

With a mixture of curiosity and dread, I pull up the recently assigned bib numbers for this weekend’s race. And there it is.

Same name. Same bib number. I’m a goner for sure.

And just as the horrible realization starts to sink in, I get the message from the library.

Time’s running out! Expiring soon! In exactly two days. The day of the race!!!

Garraty leaned into the slope, feeling his grip on his respiration start to trickle away almost at once. Be panting like a dog at the top, he thought … and then thought, if I GET to the top. There was a protesting clamor rising in both legs. It started in his thighs and worked its way down. His legs were screaming at him that they simply weren’t going to do this shit any longer.

But you will, Garraty told them. You will or you will die.

I don’t care, his legs answered back. Don’t care if I do die, die do die.

How does Stephen King do this? He is describing my suffering in advance. I am now trapped in a horror story. Do I even bother with today’s run, knowing that I’ll never last the weekend anyhow? Should I just go out for a Medium Chocolate Frosty and say screw it?

Luckily, the Fit PA Fancy Pants Early Access Elite Training Plan©, now with lanolin, provides me with a coach for just such quandaries.

I ask Coach Ella what I should do.

She responds:

This is EXACTLY why everyone needs a coach, or a 90-year-old neighbor, who isn’t afraid to slap you around a little from time to time. Except maybe for the part where she says it’s funny I’m going to die.

And so I went to the little indoor track to avoid the heat. I hunkered down for the run, intent on staying under 15 minute miles to avoid being shot to death.

It felt fine. I had it.

And then:

15:04 pace. I’m a goner for sure. I might have already said that.

Downside: I miss Char.

Upside: Looks like I’ll be seeing her soon.