The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records by Colleen Sydor Page B

“Know what Einstein said, Santi?” He took her yip as a yes. “Only one who devotes himself to a cause with his whole strength and soul can be a true master … mastery demands all of a person.”
    Einstein, thought Lee, I sure hope to heck you know what you’re talking about. “Okay then, girl,” he said, “Time to give it our all.”
    As they passed the thirty-seven kilometer marker, Lee began a slow jog. Santiago, for her part, was ecstatic. She galloped ahead until the leash was taut and soon she had him picking up speed. Lee suddenly remembered why he’d decided to walk this marathon instead of running it. He could feel his lungs protesting. He was about to tell Santiago to give him a break, to “slow down , ya maniac, you’ve obviously never suffered with asthma,” but when he opened his mouth, something entirely different flew out: “Frig it.” Lee was suddenly overtaken by an overwhelming urge to let the pain grow and intensify until he exploded into a million mediocre bits, blowing through his mediocre universe. He caught up with Santiago and started running at a punishing speed. The more it hurt, the faster he ran. His heart became a pair of boxing gloves, pounding the inside of his chest: left- right , left- right —thump- thump . He could even feel the pounding in his temples, like the top of his head was about to blow off. Yep, here it comes. Self-combustion. Lee McGillicuddy up in smoke. POOF ! Nothing left but a smoldering heap of cinders. He was waiting for it, expecting it. But it didn’t come.
    Instead came the miraculous: Without warning, without explanation … jeez … he started to feel good. Absurdly, ridiculously good. And strong . Strong enough to spin the planet on the tip of his finger like a basketball. And then he did it— the impossible. He maxed his speed, screwed his eyes shut, spread his arms wide, and took a suicidal leap at his “wall”— that rubbery membrane of mediocrity that stood between him and mastery—and instead of rebounding into space … holy crud … HE … BROKE … THROUGH . As Lee stepped onto the track at the university stadium—the same track that thousands of marathoners had stepped onto only yesterday as they took their last steps toward the finish line—he knew he’d broken through.
    It was like putting on perfect prescription glasses when you didn’t even know your eyesight was crappy. It was like having a huge plug of wax removed from an ear that you didn’t know had been blocked up for years. The volume was up and everything seemed vibrant and sharp and full of possibility. He’d done it. Lee Sonny Daddy Beanpole McGillicuddy, if only for a tiny, infinitesimal fraction of his life, had entered Mastery.
    Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
    â€“ T. S. Eliot
    You can become a winner only if you are willing to walk over the edge.
    â€“ Damon Runyon

CHAPTER TEN
    Slang Kischuk looked up from his soccer practice inside the university stadium and did a double take. He saw a boy and a dog coming through the gates onto the track. The dog was bounding, and the kid had his arms raised high in the air. He was running sideways, facing the empty stands as if they held thousands of cheering fans. He was staggering; Slang could see he was exhausted, but the kid nodded toward the stands and croaked, “Thank you! Thank you very much.” Must be hallucinating, thought Slang—unfortunately he knew a thing or two about “Hallucination City” from recent personal experience. (Slang cringed at the sudden memory of a talking sesame seed bum.)
    â€œKischuk!” yelled the coach. “We don’t have time for daydreaming here. Get with the program or get off the field!”
    But Coach Thorwaldson lost the attention of more than one of his players as they stopped to stare at the strange