The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records by Colleen Sydor Page A

leash would pull his arm right out of its socket. “It was just a starting gun. Haven’t you ever heard of a starting gun?”
    CUT TO JOE’S BAR
    â€œHaven’t you ever heard of passion?” said Joe to Gertrude. “Sounds to me like the kid’s got it in spades. And that’s gotta come in mighty handy one day when he finds out where his talents lie. He’ll probably grow up to be a van Gogh, or an Einstein, or something.”
    â€œMaybe you’re right,” said Gertrude, downing her glass and standing up.
    â€œNow don’t be too hard on him,” said Joe. “You going out looking for him?”
    â€œHell, no,” said Gertrude. “I’m certain he’s not up to anything dangerous. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.” She scooped up a handful of peanuts from the bar for the road. “It was the marathon yesterday. That always seems to fan his fire.” She smiled at Joe. “Or should I say, his passion . If I know Lee, he’s probably gone out to run forty-two kilometers backwards on a pogo stick or some crazy thing.” She lifted her hat. “Thanks for the wise words, Joe. You’re a prince among bartenders.”
    FADE TO A HEADSHOT OF LEE, TALKING INTO INVISIBLE MICROPHONE
    â€œNote to self: Next year, think about training to be the first person to walk the marathon backwards.” Lee looked down at Santiago, who had calmed down enough by now to enjoy the walk. “If I did that,” he said to Santi, “you really could be my seeing-eye dog.”

CHAPTER NINE
    Some men give up their designs when they have almost reached the goal, while others, on the contrary, obtain a victory by exerting, at the last moment, more vigorous efforts than ever before.
    Herodotus
    By thirty-seven kilometers, Lee was going through his predictable “Am I nuts?” phase. If his life was some kind of crappy movie, it definitely wasn’t a comedy anymore. He slowed down, bent over, and took Santiago’s jowls in his hands. He looked her straight in the eyes. “Am I nuts, girl? What are we doing? Why are we doing this, Santi?”
    Santiago licked Lee’s face and gave a questioning whine. Lee sighed, glanced at his watch, and kept walking. Seven and a quarter hours they’d been trudging. His “bring-it- on -bro” enthusiasm had left him at sixteen kilometers. It hit him hard when he realized that, aside from the red spot on his white ankle sock from a busted blister, there’d be no blood and guts for him here today. It’s only the sweating, give-it-all-you’ve-got runners who hit that heart-breaking, soul-sucking “wall,” thought Lee. Walkers? Oh yeah, they ache, they hurt, but they’ll never have the kind of agony or the ecstasy of a true hero.
    Instead of bricks, Lee imagined his “wall” made of a thin, unbreakable membrane—strong enough to bounce him back every time he tried to break through, but thin enough (like the over-stretched wall of a chewing gum bubble) to be able to see vague shadows of something better on the other side.
    â€œWhat the heck are we doing, Santi?”
    As if in answer, Santiago stopped to take a whiz near an apparently interesting-smelling tree. Lee sat on the curb. He tried to remember the word that had leapt out at him from this morning’s Einstein quote, the one he’d read when he was still chipper and undaunted and certain that he was not a nutcase. What was it, anyway? Something about … oh yeah, Mastery .
    Lee absentmindedly pulled up his sock, which unfortunately took the stuck-on top of his weepy blister along with it. Shoot . He wondered if he’d ever really be “master” material at anything, or (and this felt much more likely) remain forever “mediocre.” Mediocre at everything.
    Mastery. Mediocrity. What’s it gonna be, Lee?
    He tossed Santiago a dried passion fruit from his trail mix.