Chasing Rocky
July 4, 2010 – Enola, Oklahoma, USA
“So this is Pioneer Park, pride of Enola,” Trevor Boykin announced to his girlfriend, Celia.
They parked their rental car in one of the spaces that surrounded the four sides of the park. Trevor’s parents parked right next to them in their pickup.
“I guess I thought it would be bigger, from the way you described it,” said Celia. “But maybe everything seems bigger as a kid.”
“If you grab the sunshade, your mom and I will grab the chairs,” Trevor’s dad called to him. “I wanna get a spot where we can see the parade and the games.”
Trevor and Celia carried the pop-up shade pavilion to his dad’s preferred spot and got it set up. Then they unfolded the chairs and his dad plopped down into one of them.
“They don’t have floats in the parade anymore,” said Trevor’s dad. “The volunteer fire engine just drives around the park and people follow in their trucks, honking and waving flags. It’s a lot less work.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it is,” replied Trevor. He turned to Celia. “How about we check out the lawn?”
Celia readily agreed and they walked past the park’s playground and bathrooms and into the wide open green space that made up the bulk of the park. The ground was absolutely level and the grass cut to golf-course standards of precision.
“No one in town has a nice lawn at home, so they all kind of treat this one as their own,” said Trevor.
“What do they do on it?” asked Celia.
“Sometime they have picnics or throw a ball around. But mostly they just admire it until the Fourth of July party. The races start over on that side.”
They walked to one edge of the park and Trevor described where the crowd would stand and how the runners would line up. The length of the race would depend on the age group.
Celia smiled appreciatively as Trevor spoke and then she said, “It’s nice to see it with my own eyes.”
“Like I told you, with the flat grass, it’s made for speed. That’s what people like to see.”
Celia continued to smile at Trevor and looked like she might be on the verge of giggling.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” said Trevor, almost blushing. “That I shouldn’t be taking it so seriously.”
“No, I think you should,” Celia assured him. “It’s important to you because it was a part of your childhood. That’s where most dramatic memories come from.”
Trevor nodded and his mind immediately drifted back to racing on that same grass as a kid. He never won a race because a boy named Jimmy Trager was in his grade. They always moved up in age groups together and Jimmy was always naturally faster. The winner for each group got a ribbon and a candy bar, along with the admiration of everyone in town. There was nothing for second place. Either Enola did not believe in celebrating anything but first, or they did not have the budget to spend on extra candy bars.
The candy bar prize only applied to the child races. There was an eighteen and older race that gave away cash money for first place. Every year while growing up, Trevor had watched Rocky Montero win. Everyone said he could have raced in the Olympics if he had wanted to. Something fast in Enola was not compared to a jet or a bullet, it was said to be as “fast as Rocky Montero”.
Trevor had not raced with the eighteen and overs. He had skipped out of Enola as soon as high school was over and not looked back. He ended up in North Carolina, where he had gotten married and then divorced. He had no desire to explain his history to the busybodies in Enola, so he had mostly stayed away. When he did make it back for the occasional Thanksgiving or Christmas, he hated hearing how he had “plumped up” after being such a skinny kid.
Trevor’s return to the center of town on July 4th had everything to do with Celia. When they started dating, he could not understand what she saw in him, although he was never brave enough to ask. She was fun, healthy, and beautiful. She arrived faithfully at her gym every morning and soon Trever was there, too, just to keep up. With Celia for inspiration, he lost the “plumped up” weight and felt stronger and faster than he had since high school.
“When do we get to meet Celia?” his parents kept asking him. “She’s obviously been great for you.”
At the same time, Celia kept saying she would love to see where Trevor grew up. An idea formed in his mind about the best time to return to Enola.
“Do you think you could train me to run fast?” he asked Celia.
“Like in a 5K or something?” she replied.
“No, something shorter. More like a sprint.”
“How far of a sprint?”
Trevor did his best to remember the grass course at the Enola Pioneer Park. “Let’s say 100 meters.”
“I think there’s a lot of technique to sprinting. And lifting weights can help. But, you know, some people are just naturally built for short bursts. Like cheetahs.”
“But you could make me way better than the average person, right?”
“I don’t think the average person cares much about sprinting, so sure.”
Celia loved a project. She was curious how much faster Trevor could get if he really tried. Together, they researched training regimens and then spent four months transforming Trevor. He lost more weight but gained muscle in his legs. They spent their nights at a track running intervals and practicing fast starts. Trevor ate exactly what his sprinter’s diet demanded. He never felt like he was suffering or pushing too hard. He wanted to prove to Celia he was worth the reclamation effort.
As Celia and Trevor walked over the grass in Enola, they counted their strides from where the race would likely start to where it would end.
“Yeah, that’s going to be pretty close to 100 meters,” said Celia with satisfaction. “You should have the timing right.”
“What about the grass?” asked Trevor.
“I think you’ve got the perfect shoes.” She smiled at him. “You’ve worked really hard. This is your race and I’m just happy to be here.”
Trevor’s mood soared at the boost of confidence Celia provided. They returned to the shade pavilion to sit with his parents as the truck and fire engine parade circled the park. Then they watched the tug of war, dunking booth, pie eating contest, and greased pole climb. Grilled hamburgers only cost one dollar but Trevor avoided anything too heavy in his stomach. Instead, he swallowed a protein bar and some electrolyte gel.
While walking past the crowd of people lined up for snow cones, Trevor recognized his old nemesis, Jimmy Trager. Jimmy had a toddler in his arms and an older child circling his legs.
“Trevor, is that you?” called Jimmy.
“Yep, it’s me,” answered Trever in a friendly voice.
“Who’s this pretty woman next to you? You two can’t possibly be together,” said Jimmy with a smile.
Trevor introduced Celia and then Jimmy introduced his two kids and said his wife was running around chasing a third.
“So are you running today?” Trever asked Jimmy.
“In the races? Me? Nah, I haven’t done that in a long time,” said Jimmy. “I’ll have my kids race.”
“Why not you? C’mon, it’ll be fun,” urged Trevor.
“Nah, I don’t think so. My knees are bad,” said Jimmy. “We’re gettin’ old, you know?”
“Not me. I’m gettin’ better,” said Trevor with a grin.
Trevor kept walking down the line, talking and waving at people he knew. He was very proud to introduce Celia to anyone who seemed interested. He also kept an eye out for potential race competition. With very few exceptions, the adults he met were not in any kind of training. They scarfed down burgers and snow cones and did not mind how their bellies sagged over their pants and shorts. And no one was wearing true running shoes. Most people wore sneakers that were designed for sitting and walking. Celia was right. This was his race.
Suddenly, a megaphone-amplified voice was heard. It belonged to the woman in charge of the races and she was encouraging the entire crowd to gather on the far side of the park.
“Like always, we’ll start with the youngest kids first,” said the woman. “So let’s have everyone three and under.”
The hamburger grill was cleared of burgers. The crushed ice in the snow cone machine was left to melt. The water hose connected to the slip and slide was turned off. Everyone in the park, meaning everyone in Enola, lined up on both sides of the grass race lane.
The three and under race was only about ten yards long. Ten kids participated and obviously the three-year-olds had a big advantage compared to the toddlers who could barely walk. Those spectators far from the starting line had a poor view of the actual race, but they knew exactly when it started because Cooter Hobbs, the deputy sheriff, dressed in full uniform, shot his pistol in the air.
The crowd roared when the winning three-year-old crossed through the ribbon designating the finish line. She was handed a candy bar and then parents rushed to rescue the youngest racers who had given up and were sitting in the grass.
Next up were the six to four-year-olds. The finish line was moved back another ten yards. Cooter shot his pistol and the racers were off again. The finish line kept moving farther from the start as the age groups got older.
As the fifteen to seventeen-year-olds were preparing to start, the crowd noticed a lone figure walking from the abandoned hamburger grill and toward the racing lane. People pointed and tapped the shoulders of their neighbors to get their attention. Someone cheered and shouted, “Here he comes!” Another person yelled, “Rocky’s finally here!”
The legendary Rocky Montero reached one of the lines of spectators and began shaking hands. The people closest to him seemed to forget all about the fifteen to seventeen-year-olds.
From where Trevor was standing, he had a good view of Rocky. He looked much older than Trevor remembered. Of course it had been many years since he had seen Rocky, but somehow he looked to have aged twice as fast as he should have. The lean figure and shiny hair that Trevor recalled had been replaced by a paunch belly and a comb over.
The gun went off again and the last of the kids’ races finished up. The woman on the microphone called for the eighteen and over racers to come to the starting line.
Celia grabbed Trevor’s hand. “Don’t worry. Stay in the moment. Do everything we practiced,” she said in a calming voice.
They walked to the starting line and Trevor got the first look at his competition. There were seven other runners. Three of them were wearing blue jeans and looked like they had only decided to race a few seconds earlier. The four other runners had on shorts, like Trevor, but their shorts were designed for laying around on a hot day instead of running. Trevor not only felt confident, he was worried that his impending victory would not be well respected because of the lack of competition.
“Any more runners?” called the megaphone lady. “C’mon folks, we’ve got a $100 prize this year.”
The crowd cheered and clapped. Then someone shouted, “What about Rocky? Why isn’t he running?”
More people wonder the same thing until a chant of “Rocky! Rocky!” went up and down the line of spectators.
Trevor laughed to himself, but a few seconds later, Rocky emerged into the grass lane between the spectators. “I haven’t run since last year!” he called.
“You can do it! One more time!” people shouted at him.
Rocky kept walking toward the starting line as if he was obligated to participate. He worse sweatpants and a T-shirt and when he got up next to Trevor, he leaned over and pulled off his shoes and socks.
“You’re running barefoot?” one of the other competitors asked Rocky.
“I thought I’d give it a try,” he replied.
Three of the other races got busy removing their shoes and socks.
Rocky looked up at Trevor and said, “Take it easy on me, kid.”
Trevor smiled almost sympathetically as he stared at the deep wrinkles in Rocky’s face. Why was he doing it? Sure he wanted to relive his past glory, but he was only going to embarrass himself.
“Okay, have we got everyone?” asked the microphone lady after the last pair of shoes had been ditched. “We want a fair race. Don’t crowd the person next to you and if someone takes off early, we’re gonna start again.”
While the woman was talking, Trevor visualized his race. He looked from the grass out to the distant finish ribbon. He would stay crouched low until his legs reached the right pace. Then he would lean back and swing his hands cleanly to the finish.
While Trevor was still visualizing, BANG went Cooter’s pistol. There was no “Ready, Set, Go.” Before Trevor could move, Rocky was out in front of him like he had been shot from the gun. The bottoms of Rocky’s feet were already churning. Trevor immediately forgot his plan. He lurched forward and strained his arms and legs for all he was worth.
After a few seconds, the other runners fell well behind Rocky and Trevor. Instead of focusing on the finish line like he was supposed to, all Trevor could see were Rocky’s bare feet. The screams from the crowd blended together into a wall of sound. Trevor pin wheeled his arms and his chest heaved sporadically.
Even with his poor form, Trevor was cutting into Rocky’s lead. The bare feet kept getting closer. Rocky was right there in front of him. Trevor threw his whole body forward, but he was too late. Rocky crossed through the finish ribbon first.
“Rocky wins again!” shouted voices in the crowd.
A few moments later, Trevor heard the same thing being broadcast through the megaphone. “Rocky wins again!”
Trevor bent over, sucking hard to get enough air. He felt a hand on his back. He looked up to see Rocky.
“Nice try, kid,” he said, barely winded. “You gonna come back and lose again next year?”
Before Trevor could tell Rocky where he could shove his $100 prize, Celia arrived and put an arm around Trevor’s shoulders. She turned to Rocky and said, “You can bet on it. We’ll see you next summer.”
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