Dr. Peter Samuelson and Dr. Charles Rothbard are both in their best tweed jackets. They are standing by the water cooler. They are both looking around the small break room, then at their watches, and then at that last donut left on the tray. This conference is not what they hoped for.

Peter lets a stray curiosity turn into a question for Dr. Rothbard. Peter hopes he might get a story out of his colleague that will help kill the next 10 minutes.

Peter, “Hey, Dr Rothbard. You gotta tell me that story about why you dumped that super model chick. I saw the pictures and I can’t believe it. Like you got with a chick that hot and you dumped her. Like it must have been pretty serious if you weren’t willing to put up with it and keep her on your arm.”

Charlie, “You sure you want to hear the story? It’s kinda convoluted. And I’m not really a good story teller.”

Peter, “Yeah, I gotta hear. Everyone says it's unreal.”

Charlie, “I guess. Whatever. Where do I begin? You can’t understand that girl, and why I dumped her unless we go all the back to when I was 17 years old and I was in the regional cross country meet. And it was a fucking cold morning. And you know what happens on a cold morning?”

Peter, “What like cold enough to see your breath?”

Charlie, “No, way colder than that. Text book answer, it was cold enough for deposition to take place, the phenomenon when a vapor skips over the liquid phase and goes directly into the solid phase. It was SO cold the vapor in my breath was under going deposition and forming ice stalagmites and stalactites on the pilus located in my olfactory cavities. In less scientific terms, it was so cold that I had ice boogers hanging from my nose.”

Peter, “Holy shit, Dr Rothbard. That’s fucking cold. But, I guess I don’t get how this connects to you dumping that super model chick.”

Charlie, “I’ll get to that. But first, just let me tell the story. If you wanna hear it. Anyways.”

Peter, “Yeah, of course. Sorry for interrupting.”

Charlie, “So it was cold as shit. And I was standing on the starting line in a gaggle of guys, all of us wearing lace thin booty shorts and tank tops with a racing bib clothes pinned on the chest. My racing bib was number 13. Of course, a lot of guys liked to walk the course before running it. I did, so I knew the general layout, you know the twists and turns, where to start my sprint to the end.

My dad was there, over to the side standing next to my mom. I wish he didn’t come, he always jinxes me. He never came to my cross country races, that was my secret to such a good season so far. He was always working late but this was Saturday morning so that excuse wouldn’t fly. Plus, I was a strong candidate to maybe win the race, or at least get in the top 15. Either way, I was kind of a lock to go to the state finals to represent our school, and he was there to see if I’d shit the bed. He and my mom off a little bit from the starting line. My mom embarrassing him and me. My mom, the only lady on the face of the earth who cheers at the start of a cross country race. “Yeah Charlie! Go Charlie! Alright Capac! Go Capac!”

But, anyways, man was it cold. Luckily, I had on a winter stocking cap. A bright orange number that was straight out of my dad’s hunting gear.

The gun always catching you off guard, especially in cross country where it's not like you start off at a sprint for the 3.106 mile race.

Pow Crah Crahck!

The sharp elbows on our skinny teenage boy runner arms start pumping. The racing cleats rip into the slightly muddy layer of ground. It was frosted over but the girls already raced and they feet beat a nice layer of slippery for us to deal with.

I’m off to my usual slow start. My team gave me the front slot on the starting line but I wasn’t the type to rush out to the front of the whole pack from the get go. No my strategy was always, get to the front of the middle pack and pass people the whole race. Make it a game. No one passes me. I pass everyone.

We were all country boys, maybe I was more country than most. I didn’t know nothing about sports science. I ate a few bowls of sugary cereal before taking the hour long bus trip to the meet. I had a brick of corn flakes sloshing in my belly to go with the butterflies. But I stuck to my strategy just fine. Picking off one runner at a time.

The race went by in a blur. I felt like I was flying. My panting breathes. My focus on nothing more than nothing. Finding zen in the run. I didn’t hear the split times when I passed the track suit coaches, holding up their stop watches, and yelling out numbers.

With about half a mile left, there was a turn in the course that allowed you to get a side view of the final stretch. During my walk through, I planned to use this point to figure out how many people were ahead of me. How soon and how fast I would have to start my kick.

At this turn in the race, I was shocked to see like 20 guys ahead of me. I was like oh fuck! So with a half mile left, I started my kick. Its not possible to sprint 800 meters but I was going to do it.

The course bottlenecked so only 2.5 boys could run side by side. If there were two guys running in front of me, getting in my way, I narrowed myself, squeezed by with a side step maneuver that reduced me to Charlie version 0.5. Beta meta max best get to the front of this fucking pack. A version of me I made out of desperation.

100 meters to go and I had not broken my sprint. Picking off a few guys on the last short straight away but they were sprinting now too so it was going to be close. I had a pack of about 3 guys ahead of me, just close enough that if I had 50 more meters of course left, I would have passed them all. But I didn’t have anymore course left.

I crossed the finish line and some race official handed me a popsicle stick with a number on it. They called out my place when I crossed the finish line but I was going too hard to hear anything other then the pounding dread my heart was feeling. Dread the terrible news. The whole season, over, if I didn’t place high enough.

I looked at the popsicle stick. 13 written with black sharpie marker. Just like the number on my bib. 13th place. I thought, okay. That’s at least qualifying for states. I didn’t completely shit the bed.

I walked over to our coach. He looked like he was trying to hide his disappointment. I told him 13th place. He already knew. I told him, I thought I saw something like 18 something on the big timer after I passed the finish line. He told me my exact time. It wasn’t my best race of the year. Not a bad time but not my best. Some of the girls from our school team came over to congratulate me on qualifying for the state meet. The coach hadn’t congratulated me.

I went back to the finish line to cheer on the rest of the boys coming in. A few guys from our school ran their best times. I was the team captain. But more than that I was the team cheerleader and fun leader. I yelled my self hoarse, clapped my hands raw, whooped my arms almost out of socket for my brothers.

When we were all finished. When it was time to head over to the gym. Our group was walking together, talking times, talking places. The two stars on the girls team were both in the top ten. That wasn’t the focus though, everyone started talking about whether or not state qualification was top 15 or top 10. I hoped to God it was top 15. No! Fuck 14th and 15th place. I hoped it was top 13.

In the packed gym. The guy with the mic hooked up to a little speaker on the floor. He got right into it. Calling out names to come to the front to get their race medals. He stopped at 10th place. No medals for anything worse than 10th place.

My team tried to console me. They all started pontificating that it was top 10 for a medal but top 15 went to the state meet. My coach didn’t chip in with an answer, he looked numb with disappointment. Too distant from the moment to tell me if I was going to states. So I asked a neighboring coach. The neighboring coach took a second break from celebrating with his select studs to tell me, “yeah, top 10 states. Not top 15. What were you?”

I didn’t answer him.

After the ceremony. I found my parents still out in the field next to a few of the parents who also still hanging around. My mom told me how proud she was of my team. How awesome everyone did. My dad told me how far the best guy was in front of everyone else. Said that tall kid must have beat me by at least a minute. My dad asked me why I wore the big orange hat. None of the other boys wore big stocking caps. My mom told me how great it was that I wore the orange hat because it made it so easy to pick me out of the pack during the race.

My parents drove home in my dad’s truck. I rode the bus home with my team.

For the first 10 or 15 minutes of the bus ride, I tried to hide my disappointment by being extra silly. Getting the other boys riled up. The coach let it slide. The girls tried to ignore us because that’s the game. We’re silly for their attention. They score points for not getting taken in by our best gags.

The fastest girl was also my fantasy girl at that time. She got like 3rd place. Usually she and I talked a little bit on bus rides home. I felt like she was giving me a look of pity that was warding off a conversation. After about 30 minutes of bus ride, the silliness had completely floated away and a somber mood took everyone. Especially seniors like me who thought their distance running days were over. I moved to a seat at the back of the bus, away from the possibility of anyone who might try to get an emotion out of me. I thought this was my last chance at glory. I wondered why I fucking sucked at life so hard core.

Fast forward fifteen years. I was still a runner, more serious than before. Nutrition. Ice baths. Massage therapy. 12 week plans followed to the letter. I had to run. My training was the only thing that I looked forward. It was the reason to get out of the house, a socially acceptable and healthy way to get a break from my wife’s verbal abuse. A good run was the only thing that could help me digest the sand castle bullshit they had me building at work all day.

12 weeks of taping ankles. Losing toe nails. Spending too much money on running gear. I got into the 5k race in Seoul that coincided with the peak of my fitness. Race day, and it was a freezing cold morning. I didn’t wear a hat. Just my running clothes, some lacy underwear type stuff that would make you blush to wear anywhere outside of an appropriate event. On the starting line, I looked at my competition. Some local legends out this day. I thought, “I’m not going to win but I ain't leaving shit in the tank.”

The starting gun. Pow Crah Crahk.

I started with a pace I figured I could not sustain. Fast as fuck. Fast enough to shoot to the front. Get into first place. I decided, fuck it, let's see how long I can hold first. Someone tries to pass me, then I’ll just run faster.

One K, two K, three K, four K. I was still in first but I was so far past my aerobic threshold that I was drooling lactic acid out of my mouth. With about 800 meters left, two guys got past me. These guys win every 5k in Seoul, so whatever.

No!

Fuck!

That!

Shit!

I don’t say whatever anymore.

I’m going to catch those mother fuckers or die trying.

The finish line. I fell across it. Third place. I didn’t get those mother fucking brother runners. But I gave them hell. They told me so themselves, “Hey, that was awesome. Great pace you set. Thanks for pushing me.”

No one there to cheer when I went up on the stage and got the medal. They also gave me a fucking sweat hiking back pack as a prize.

That back pack. I still use it. The strap needs to be fixed. And I’m going to get it fixed. The liner is tearing. And I’m going to get that fixed too.

My story. My basic issue. It includes this bag I won. Don’t tell me to get a better bag. Instead, ask me how I got the bag. Ask me why I keep it. But, don’t fucking dare, even suggest I get rid of it.

So when that hot super model chick was like, 'Charlie, you need to get a new bag.' And she was adamant about it. I was like, 'Get the fuck out.'

Actually, that’s an exaggeration.

She said, what did she say?

Yeah, she said the bag was too big. She said I should get something smaller.”

Dr. Peter Samuelson standing there waiting for the point of the story. With his mouth agape, staring at Dr. Charlie Rothbard.

Charlie looks back at Peter. Charlie thinks, “Same reaction every time.” Charlie waits for the standard response and Peter gives it.

Peter says, “You dumped a super model over a ratty old backpack! That is the dumbest shit I have ever heard!”

Charlie, “Not really when you think about it.”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and winces his eyes. Peter huffs red steam out his mouth. Peter’s exact string of thoughts, “Everyone said this was the best story. You have to hear it they said. You have to get him to tell it to you they said. He only tells you the story if its just the right timing. Fuck those fucking cunts. This story was absolute bullshit. I wish I just ate the fucking donut and talked about the weather! Fuck!!”

Peter looked at Dr. Rothbard and said, “Dr. Rothbard, I hate you. I fucking hate you. Don’t ever talk to me again.”

Charlie told this story so many times. He knew it wouldn’t make sense to Peter until he showed Peter the cell phone pictures of the cross country team, the 5k weekend warrior race, the bag, and the super model.

Charlie pulled out his phone and thumbed his way through the pictures for Peter to see.

Peter laughed so hard his stomach hurt. The anger being replaced by stupifying injections of life. Peter bends over and puts his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Peter looks up at his colleague and struggles out some words between his laughing, “man you’ve got fucking issues bro!”

Charlie responds, deadpan, “Yeah, basic issues. And this bag shows that I haven’t stopped working on filling in the gaps. Dumping that girl shows I’m making progress. On my basic issues. Plus, she was my first almost girl friend after the divorce. So I knew it wasn't going anywhere. Just a rebound girl.”