Resistant by Michael Palmer Page B

started at a brisk jog, and behind him, Cap kept pace. By the time they left the hotel property, Lou’s sneakers were soaked. They continued running single file, following signs to the Blue Ridge Trail, which quickly diverged from the one they had taken two days before. This one initially rose sharply through dense forest, then leveled, then rose again. Beautiful. Absolutely magnificent. The overcast brightened as the canopy thinned. The drizzle seemed to be letting up. Lou quickly came in tune with his body. His legs felt strong, and the slope was presenting no breathing difficulties—at least not yet.
    “Still thinking about my bed,” Cap said from behind.
    “We’ll run that thought right out of your head,” Lou called back.
    In his mind, a trail qualified as a technical run if it had substantial terrain variation, challenging rock formations, maybe large cracks and exposed roots, and quick changes in elevation. In other words, if it could answer “absolutely” to the question: Can I end up in the hospital if I’m not careful? Lou slowed his pace. The Blue Ridge Trail, especially given the weather, was fitting his definition of technical with the equivalent of a summa cum laude GPA from Yale.
    Thirty minutes into the run his lungs began to burn. His nostrils flared as he worked harder to get in air. From behind and slightly to his left, he heard Cap’s footfalls landing against a garden of loose rocks, embedded in lightly packed, muddy soil. Except for a few short stretches, the pitch continued to rise. The run back, largely downhill, was going to be interesting. Lou was feeling it in his legs now, and wondering what level of runner the hotel concierge might be. This was turning into one hell of a trail.
    “Follow my line,” Lou called over his shoulder. “I’ve got a good read on this section.”
    “I’m with you, bro.”
    It didn’t sound as if Cap was even breathing hard. No big surprise.
    Awhile later, distracted by a nasty stitch that had developed in his side, Lou slipped on a gnarled root and stumbled. Before he could go down, Cap’s hand clamped on his arm and steadied him.
    “Come on, buddy, we got this,” Cap said.
    “Nice grab.”
    They had to be nearly an hour out—the turnaround point. Lou’s body was beginning to settle down again, but the next stretch proved the most challenging yet. He sensed the lactic acid building in his muscles, and resolved to make time to do more cardio after they returned home. Around a sharp bend, they came to a series of large boulders covered in slick wet moss. Lou stopped, breathing heavily now. Even Cap seemed relieved at the brief respite.
    “We climb over?” Cap asked, surveying the obstacles.
    Lou checked his watch. Fifty-three minutes. He wondered if they had bitten off too much, and for the first time, thought about walking.
    “Unless you want to head back,” he said. “We’re just about to where we had planned on turning.”
    “We finish what we started. Just be careful.”
    Using their hands, they scrambled up and over the rocks, landing in a shallow puddle at the other side that turned out to be an inch or so of mud.
    First just slow down a bit, Lou thought. Just a bit.
    The pitch elevated once again. Lou’s heart rate jacked up until he felt it beating in his throat. A jumble of thick, slick roots. No problem. A gauntlet of large rocks. Piece of cake. Risking a glance behind him, Lou saw that Cap was keeping pace, still running loose and within himself.
    “You’re killing it!” Lou called out.
    “You too, amigo.”
    At that moment, Lou realized his breathing was coming more easily. The nagging stitch in his side vanished. It was a second wind—as much mental as physical. He had experienced what he assumed was the involuntary flood of endorphins on runs before. His mind began to calm and his senses heightened. With the lightening sky, the wet woods hummed with energy and the sounds of the forest. Birdcalls. Insects. Raindrops tapping