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Runners' Guide to Beating the Devil
Runners' Guide to Beating the Devil
Runners' Guide to Beating the Devil
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Runners' Guide to Beating the Devil

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When two 60+ running partners, Norm Carbone and Felix Morales, sign up for a midnight 6.66k race on Friday the 13th, they get a hell of a lot more than they bargained for. They unwittingly sign an entry form with the Devil's agent, encounter an unusual cast of celebrity runners, and are left unconscious near the finish line. Their post-race suspicions that they were duped into a terrible prank are confirmed when they review the race entry form fine print that promises runners the ability to win the Boston Marathon in exchange for their immortal souls.

However, weeks later an unusual burst of speed on a high school track convinces Norm that forces beyond his modest running talent are propelling him. What follows is a series of astounding race results that gain national attention and test the boundaries of Norm and Felix’ s friendship. Join these two seasoned marathoners as they wage a running battle with other worldly forces and a skeptical public to save their soles...ah, souls.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBookBaby
Release dateMar 20, 2017
ISBN9781483594811
Runners' Guide to Beating the Devil

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    Runners' Guide to Beating the Devil - Paul Cirrincione

    coincidental.

    Each April thousands of runners line up in Hopkinton, Massachusetts for the start of the running of the Boston Marathon. Another million runners sit at home wishing they were there.

    The oldest continuously-run marathon, Boston survived two world wars and a terrorist attack. Most marathons require an entry form, a few dollars, months of training and perhaps a lucky draw in a lottery, and you’re off. Boston demands excellence. To run, you need to qualify. Only then are you considered for the privilege of lining up on that April morning.

    Boston Marathon alumni belong to a legion of runners sharing an uncommon achievement and bond. Some dedicated runners never reach the Boston starting line and satisfy themselves in other ways. Some never give up trying.

    The Wantagh Parkway cuts an almost straight north/south path through Nassau County of Long Island. Its two lanes in each direction are separated by a waist-high concrete median. On weekdays, thousands of commuters ride over the ten-mile road to reach the highways in and out of New York City. The parkway rises about ninety feet from south to north. The slight increase in elevation is not noticeable unless you’re running a marathon. This Sunday morning the road was closed to motorists. It was hosting a stretch of the Long Island Marathon. One lanky veteran marathoner, Norm, was in mile twenty heading north. He wasn’t having a good day.

    Norm wasn’t a top-tier runner. He was what they call in running circles a grinder. You could hear his heavy footsteps like horses’ hooves on cobblestone. He liked to call himself a Ham and Egger. He borrowed the term from Rocky Balboa’s self-deprecating description to a racing promoter in the film Rocky. Norm trained hard and didn’t have a problem finishing in the middle of the pack. No trophies collected dust on his dresser.

    This morning Norm was paying the price for the fast first ten miles he ran in the early stage of the marathon. He hit the halfway mark at a near personal best pace, but he knew it wasn’t going to last. He’d made the same mistake many times before. Starting fast was a temptation he couldn’t resist. It seemed so easy breezing through the early miles. It was like his body was pulled along by an eager dog on a leash.

    Now, each step jarred his weakening body. He lifted his racing cap and wiped his brow and looked ahead. Squinting, he could see the yellow twenty-mile marker along the side of the road about a quarter mile away. His shirt, a blue singlet, was wet with perspiration that covered dried sweat; his gray racing cap was soaked. White crystals of salt were forming on his arms as his body drained away water and minerals. His stride had shortened as he tried coping with muscle fatigue and the heat. He could see the reflection of the sun glistening off his sweat-covered shoulder. He welcomed a cloud that brought shade for a few seconds, blocking the baking rays of sunshine. The long road ahead appeared wet, like a mirage in the Sahara.

    A young woman standing along the shoulder with a German shepherd for company shouted encouragement. Looking good. You’re almost there. The dog knew better and kept silent. Norm turned his head and raised his hand in a half-hearted gesture of acknowledgement.

    He reached for a two-ounce packet of energy gel pinned to his racing shorts. Pulling it away from his shorts, he put it up to his mouth. With his teeth he tore at the plastic strip, squeezed the packet and tasted the chocolate pudding-like substance. Enhanced with caffeine, it promised to supply a few carbohydrates to his depleted body. In Norm’s dry mouth, it was like trying to swallow glue. I should have waited until after the water stop, he thought. Water was a quarter mile away. Damn it.

    A little more than an hour ago, running south on the Wantagh, Norm admired the elite runners heading north on the other side of the road. Miles ahead of him, they held their heads high, their long strides gliding them northward. They were like sleek jets at cruising altitude. Norm, in contrast, now looked like one of the early Wright Brothers-era bi-planes. People along a grassy field were holding their breath as it sputtered and bounced along, perhaps moments from a graceless nose-first splat into the ground.

    Turning back to the highway, the twenty-mile marker inched closer. Up ahead he could see a string of runners pushing forward. Their ranks had thinned, as the faster, more talented runners were already finished. He glanced at his watch. It was a black Timex Ironman that he wore all through the training for the marathon. It was his coach and critic. In the first few miles, it cautioned him when he hit the mile splits thirty seconds faster than a reasonable pace. He ignored it. Now, as he approached the twenty-mile marker, he looked down as the seconds ticked past the three-hour mark. The watch told him he’d blown any chance of qualifying for the Boston Marathon. His jumbled thoughts turned to minimizing his current agony while finishing with his runner’s dignity intact. He mulled it over. Why punish myself? What’s the point? Walk… No, I’m not wasting six months of training. Screw it. Just keep going…keep going.

    Walking would be like putting up the white flag and surrendering. Norm plodded by the twenty-mile marker and kept going…kept going, each step forward a shock to his fatigued body and thousands of steps to go.

    Water, Gatorade, the young boy said, holding two green cups out to the passing runners.

    Norm steered over to the smiling boy who had his arms extended. His legs wobbled as he slowed to grab the water cup from the kid. Spilling half of it on his singlet, he gulped down the rest. He dropped the empty cup and staggered forward on the Gatorade-slick highway, kicking the empty green cups left behind by the faster runners. Dozens of shouting spectators, some holding signs, lined the roadway. He looked at their smiling faces and wondered what they thought as his struggling, beaten body passed by them.

    Go Joe, go! a girl screamed as Joe somebody ran past Norm, who shuffled forward.

    Joe looked thirty years younger than Norm and pumped his fist triumphantly as he passed. Norm looked on with a mixture of envy and resentment.

    It was approaching noon and the early morning cool was turning to a balmy, sunny afternoon. It was the perfect kind of day for a picnic or walk in the park. Norm woke up before dawn and checked the weather forecast. He groaned as the guy on TV with a ‘jumping for joy’ voice announced it would be sunny and seventy-five this afternoon. Doom to the average runner hoping to score a personal best in a long-distance race.

    Today while waiting at the starting line with his running buddy Felix, they both agreed to pace each other. Felix was a better runner, but injury prone. The hamstring problem he had over the winter was acting up again this morning. They were both past sixty and had reached the age where the inevitable decline of athletic performance would accelerate. However, age was one metric Norm had learned to ignore.

    In the early miles they both ran together. Felix always pushed the pace and Norm trailed behind him. At mile six, Norm heard Felix yelp in pain and saw him start limping before moving off to the side of the road like a car with a flat tire.

    What happened? Norm shouted, looking back as he continued running.

    It’s the hammy again, damn it! I’m out. I’m out, damn it…You go… I’ll see you at the finish…Shit. Felix cursed in disgust as Norm continued along Jericho Turnpike.

    Norm shared the running culture’s view of looking the other way when frustrated runners swore or others peed on the side of the road. The general public’s view of runners was less tolerant. Many a runner felt the scorn of a driver trying to make a right turn only to be surprised by a runner coming along. A pedestrian was to be respected; a runner was often reviled. Even Norm lost patience with the runners in a race that held him up in traffic last month. He felt guilty, but cursed under his breath anyway. It didn’t help, either, that many runners displayed a false sense of superiority. Their bumper stickers bragged, I DO 26.2. The public’s response: Run twenty-six miles? That’s crazy. Their points-of-view were miles apart.

    At mile twenty-one Norm had no reason to feel superior. His umpteenth marathon was following the pattern of many others and his quest to break the four-hour mark would fall short again. He longed for shade. The sun, high overhead, burned his shoulders. He doused his head with water as he approached the underpass at Exit 3 of the Wantagh. Reaching the shade he felt a gust of cool air which sent a chill through his soaked torso, raising goose bumps on his forearms. He could hear a runner on his right mumbling.

    Let’s go…Keep going …You can do it, the mumbler said out loud to encourage himself.

    His words sounded as flat as his footsteps on the pavement, echoing in the underpass. Norm thought this must be his first marathon as the mumbler inched by him. Sometimes runners became delirious like people lost in the desert; others used so-called tools from self-help books in the vain effort to overcome defeat. He figured he’d see the mumbler again before the race was over.

    Norm’s last ounce of pride rested in finishing the race without walking. A little over five miles remained. He could see the peppy crowd around the water stop at mile twenty-two. He was off the Wantagh on a main road leading to the park and the finish line. Norm was now among the exhausted marathon stragglers trying to summon enough determination to finish. They were like a battered army retreating from a lost battle. He passed an older man in a red singlet walking downcast with his head hung low. Another runner, a young guy, was sitting on the curb massaging a cramped calf. He could see his face tighten in pain. In front of him, the crowd urged the race weary onward.

    You can do it! Only four more miles to go, three-sixty-five! Keep going! a young woman shouted to another beaten runner in front of him.

    At this stage of the race, encouragement of this kind was akin to the crowd yelling to the man on the tenth floor ledge, Jump, Jump! Norm would prefer being soothed. He’d like to hear, You poor thing. You look so tired. I wish I could run for you. Please, oh please, don’t hurt yourself. Norm pressed forward. Each step was another ache for his exhausted, rebelling leg muscles. Legs that were no more than burdens now as willpower and forward momentum were all that was left.

    A smiling little girl with blonde hair, only six perhaps, looked up at Norm with plastic water cup.

    Thank you, Norm said, watching her smile grow as she let go of the cup. However, he turned his head too late to avoid running into the back of runner 365 in front of him. They both tumbled together, a jumble of skinny arms and legs, to the pavement slick with water and Gatorade.

    Ohhh, runner 365 moaned while spectators rushed in to help the long-limbed guy to his feet.

    Norm did an uncoordinated roll and lay there on his back, looking skyward like a fighter waiting for the ten-count.

    You all right, buddy? a man’s face above him asked.

    Yeah, I’m okay, Norm whispered. He took his time getting to his feet, the man standing by.

    He brushed himself off, found his cap and put it on backwards, rally cap style. But there was no rally today for Norm. A mixture of water and sticky Gatorade covered parts of his body. Blood was trickling from his left forearm and knee. Shaking his head, Norm examined the wounds like a physician. Anxious faces in the crowd were whispering to one another while they eyed him. He was too tired to feel embarrassed. Norm noticed that 365’s racing shorts and singlet seemed to be twisted sideways as he limped away, continuing his race. Norm looked back at the little girl, who was startled and holding back tears.

    "Oh damn," he muttered.

    Leaving the water stop, he eyed runner 365 about twenty yards ahead of him. His limp had quickened and he seemed to moving farther away from Norm. There it was: another reason to press on. I think I can catch him.

    Runner 365 was a bit younger than Norm. He could see his blonde hair curling outside the red racing cap he wore. He hobbled hunched over like Norm and seemed a bit bow-legged. Nonetheless, he continued to lengthen his lead on Norm as they approached mile twenty-three.

    As Norm sized up his chances of marshalling enough energy to reach 365, two twentyish girls came running alongside.

    Hi. This is our first marathon. We’re from Albany, one said, smiling and turning to Norm.

    She was cute, Norm thought. They both looked refreshed and could have parachuted onto the course at mile twenty-two. A lot of first-time marathoners have the goal of just finishing. They run at a comfortable pace, sometimes stopping to take pictures and talk with friends. These two girls could probably run a competitive marathon an hour faster, Norm said to himself. Old timers always envy youth.

    Only a few miles left, Norm managed to say, noticing her eyeing the blood tracks down his left arm and leg.

    Her expression changed, as if she saw a dead animal on the side of the road. She looked away and picked up her pace, not wanting anything to spoil her memory of the day. Her friend alongside followed her lead. Norm couldn’t blame them. He could imagine what a sight he was at this stage of the race. It took them less than a minute to pass runner 365. This time, they didn’t stop to talk.

    The last mile of the marathon ran through Eisenhower Park to the finish. Norm had managed to shuffle the last two miles and was now just twenty feet behind 365. It might as well have been a mile. He had given up on the idea of passing his earlier victim. He just hoped to be pulled along by the slow, steady stride of 365. He could hear the announcer’s voice at the finish in the distance while he weaved his way through the path leading to the end of the day’s misery. Letting out an exhausted sigh, Norm reached for the last cup of water from a high school kid in the park. Pulling off his cap, he doused his head and the chill of the cool water gave him a little jolt of energy. It was almost over.

    Come on, Norm, finish strong! Felix hollered from behind a waist-high wooden fence along the course, seeing Norm around the final turn close to the finish. Norm raised his head and even a faint smile took some effort as he struggled to quicken his snail’s pace. He watched runner 365 in front of him accelerate and with arms raised pass under the finish line.

    The announcer at the finish spotted Norm’s slow approach.

    … And finishing under 4:13:00 is Norm Carbone. He’s sixty-four. Good going, Norm, he said. The few spectators left in the stands reserved comment.

    Norm looked up at the clock and passed under the finishing banner. He came to a slow stop and began the type of stagger drunks would perform on police videos.

    Congratulations! a young girl crooned, attempting to place the finisher’s medal over Norm’s head.

    He leaned over and she slipped the ribbon onto his hunched shoulders and then shoved a bottle of water into his hand. At that moment, his head started to spin and the noonday park turned dark. Bright sparkles burst in front of Norm’s eyes. He was about to keel over when Felix grabbed his arm.

    You all right buddy? You look like shit. You’re white as a ghost, Felix said watching Norm tottering.

    Ah, at least I didn’t walk, Norm said discounting the minute he lay on his back at mile twenty-two. With Felix by his side and a bottle of water in his hand, the day started to brighten again.

    What happened man? You were looking so good when I left you.

    Twenty more damn miles, that’s what happened, Norm said annoyed at the question. I started too fast. It’s too hot, too. I knew I was gonna be toast at the half… How’s your hammy? he asked Felix not so much out of concern, but to put both their days in perspective.

    Yeah, the friggin hammy. I’m back on the shelf for a while, Felix said.

    Norm wasn’t looking forward to a post-race recap. It was like a losing politician explaining what went wrong at the polls and blaming the loss on the weather for the low turnout. Nobody really cares for excuses.

    The water bottle slipped from Norm’s hand. Bending over to pick it up, a vise like grip contracted his abdominal muscles. As the pain shot through his midsection, he clenched his teeth and stopped in his tracks. Putting his hand to his side he began massaging the muscle while grimacing.

    Oh man, oh man! Norm moaned, his head beginning to swim. He continued rub his abdominal muscles. The cramp started to release its grip.

    Norm come on, sit over here, Felix said motioning Norm over to a nearby bench in an open grassy area where finishers hobbled after the race. Runners, some wrapped in foil, milled about eating bananas, bagels and drinking water. A medical tent close by attended to the wounded. Bent over and massaging his midsection, Norm eased his way down on the bench.

    Drink water. You’re dehydrated, Felix urged his friend.

    Sitting down, Norm watched his left calf muscle begin to pulse and then cramp. It felt like his calf was in the mouth of an alligator. Norm’s jaw tightened and face froze in an anguished expression as he tried to rub away the pain.

    What’d you fall down, Norm? You’re a frickin’ mess, Felix asked, examining the dried blood tracks on Norm’s arm and leg.

    No, I got mugged on the parkway. Whaddaya think happened, you idiot? Norm growled, while the cramp refused to let go of his calf.

    All right, all right. Take it easy. I’m just trying to help you for crying out loud. Keep rubbing and drink that water… Felix advised. … And you’re an idiot too, by the way. Head down, Norm nodded as his calf began to relax.

    You’re right, neither one of us is too bright.

    Hey, speak for yourself Norm. And don’t be so down. There’s always another marathon. You’ll qualify for Boston next time, Felix said, but Norm wasn’t so sure. You should get up and walk around. You’re gonna tighten up big time if you keep sitting here.

    Not yet. Let me sit here a couple a minutes.

    All right, I’ll be right back. You want a banana or something?

    Yeah, a banana, Norm replied. Felix left for the snack tables and Norm sat eyes closed sipping water hoping the worst had passed. He tried to relax as he felt his muscles contracting and expected another cramp.

    Hey Norm wake up! It was Felix. Guess who I found stuffing freebees in all her pockets? Norm glanced up to see a smiling face. It was Jill’s.

    Don’t listen to him Norm. He’s such a liar, Jill said playfully slapping Felix on the arm. Are you okay, Norm? I saw you finish. You looked like you were hurting. I know it was a really tough day to run.

    Jill was a runner about forty that Norm and Felix always trailed. She had the trim body of an athlete. Recently she stepped up to triathlons. A lot of the younger athletes were now dabbling in the more extreme forms of athletic competition; giving their bodies a dose of the Navy Seal lifestyle. Norm and Felix had their taste of it in Army Basic Training. That was enough.

    I’m okay. It wasn’t one of my better marathons, Norm said, trying to muster a smile and appear in better shape than the evidence would suggest.

    He really went through the ringer. Look at that arm and leg. He’s a mess, Felix said pointing the bloody trail that didn’t need a spotlight. Jill looked with some sympathy at Norm’s spent and beat-up body.

    How’d you do Jill? Norm tried changing the subject.

    Oh, I did a 3:41:00. It was almost a personal best. I just missed by a minute, but I can’t complain, Jill said looking down at a bedraggled Norm and tossing her long blonde hair to the side. Unlike Norm, she didn’t look like she just finished a marathon.

    Hey, that’s a great time. That qualified you for again Boston, right? Norm asked.

    Qualifying and running the Boston Marathon in running circles was like being a made man in the Mafia. It was Norm’s dream to qualify. He’d give anything to run Boston. Felix had run Boston years ago in his prime. Norm always envied the when I ran Boston phrase that Felix would sprinkle in conversations with other runners. Norm longed to be in that same in-crowd.

    Oh, I don’t know if I want to do Boston again. I already have the jacket, Jill said. You know, Rudy did a 2:30:00, she added, mentioning one of the elite runners that ruled the Long Island running circuit. Rudy Black was thirty-nine and won many of the local races by wide margins. He was probably home chugging a beer watching the Yankee pre-game, Norm figured.

    Jeez, he’s amazing, Norm said.

    Ahh, back in the day I used to break three hours. Those days are long gone, Felix said, musing to himself as much as to Jill and Norm.

    Well, I gotta go. I’ll see you guys… Norm, maybe you should go over to the medical tent and have your arm and leg looked at, Jill suggested. She then turned and hurried off somewhere. Norm watched her.

    Hey, look at her. She still got a bounce in her step, Norm observed.

    Yeah, let’s see her in twenty years, Felix replied.

    Felix, I hope I’m still around in twenty years, Norm said. At sixty-four, Norm frequently found himself playing the mental game of calculating the possibility of his presence at future events or milestones. Would he be around for his six-year-old granddaughter Jenny’s college graduation? Probably yes. How about her marriage and then Norm becoming a great-grandfather? A little iffy. What about witnessing Halley’s Comet’s next arrival in 2061? Scratch that one, definitely no.

    Hey Normy, cheer up, Felix said, shaking his head. I know you’re a little down now. How bout we limp over to The Anchor Inn and grab a few brews before heading home?

    Yeah, okay. I’ll meet you there later. Let me sit here awhile. Go. I’ll be okay, Norm said.

    All right, I’ll see ya and keep drinking that water… You know, I was thinking to myself watching you finish. I hope I don’t look that bad at the end of my races, Felix said with a chuckle.

    Yeah, thanks a lot, Felix. Get going, Norm said, then watched Felix hobble away favoring his right leg. He should talk?

    Norm sat there and watched as more stragglers crossed under the finish line. This ragtag parade would continue for another hour or so. A runner caught his eye. He stumbled at the finish and breaking his fall with both hands, he hit the ground. Ouch. Two yellow-vested volunteers rushed out and helped him up. Norm watched them walk him over to the first-aid station. Norm thought many of these late finishers had no business running

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