Racing the Rain by John L Parker

Newspickle was in fact some kind of freak of nature. And this also occurred to him: most likely, Quenton Cassidy was an ordinary fool with some very silly ideas.
    He tried to put Chip Newspickle out of his mind and simply concentrate on running smoothly. He didn’t have anywhere near that amazing leg speed, but he was still running well. His stride was longer than Chip’s and the ground was passing quickly beneath him. More than that, he was feeling comfortable despite running almost flat out. It occurred to him that he was merely doing something he was used to and that he in fact enjoyed.
    He consciously loosened his shoulders and relaxed the rest of his body and noticed that he actually began to go a little faster.
    Something else was odd. As they neared the middle of the turn at the 110 post, Chip Newspickle was no farther ahead than he had been at the end of the first fifty yards. He had fifteen yards on Cassidy, which seemed like a very long way, but at least he was not gaining anymore. Was the laughter from the crowd subsiding a little?
    When Chip hit the straightaway at the end of the first curve, Cassidy was now matching him stride for stride, though still far behind. For the first time it seemed to Cassidy that he was not really flat out yet. He was probably at ninety percent, but that felt reasonable. He was keenly aware of how much ground his strides were eating up.
    At the 220 mark, halfway through the back straightaway, Bickerstaff called out, “Twenty- seven ! Twenty- eight ! Twenty- nine ! Thirty flat , thirty- one , thirty- two . . . ”
    Chip Newspickle was just under twenty-eight seconds, Cassidy three seconds back, but he had gained five yards. And he could see something familiar happening up ahead. Chip Newspickle’s back and shoulders were slightly arched and he was carrying his arms wider and more stiffly, like he saw Stiggs and especially Randleman do. Chip was still moving fast but no longer looked invincible. A shiver ran up Cassidy’s spine and tingled the hair on the back of his neck, and he thought, I can beat him.
    He concentrated on his stride and tried to imagine himself floating over the track, eating up the yards as effortlessly as he could. At the 330 post, Cassidy had gained back another five yards. It was obvious to everyone now that they were watching a real race. There was no laughter from the crowd, just a single pleading call: “Come on , Chip!”
    But Chip’s form continued to degenerate; he began to arch backward and his arms and shoulders were now moving as a solid unit, rotating awkwardly around his trunk instead of pumping up and down like pistons.
    Sensing the other boy’s vulnerability, Cassidy bore down around the final curve, pulling him back with every stride. He kept his eyes fixed on those beautiful spiked shoes flashing in front of him and concentrated on relaxing and extending his stride.
    As they came out of the turn with fifty-five yards to go, he was just off Chip’s shoulder and Cassidy saw his quick, panic-stricken glance. Chip turned grimly back to his task, bore down as he had been trained to do. At the finish line he willed himself into a lean.
    That lean saved Chip Newspickle from the ignominy of losing a race to a skinny nobody in second-period gym class.
    â€œSixty flat point three!” shouted Coach Bickerstaff, hurrying over in his stiff-legged gait. “Dead heat!” He looked at Burke, who nodded, a tight smile on his face.
    A stunned group milled around the finish line, looking at each other and at the runners in disbelief. The laws of the universe had been turned upside down before their eyes, and they were still trying to make sense of it.
    Bickerstaff and Burke began shooing them back onto the track, trying to get them organized.
    â€œAll right, all right, knock it off!” said Bickerstaff. “Get ready, the rest of you. And let’s see more of the kind of effort we just saw there!”