Fast Eddie
“Fast Eddie! I never knew they called you that,” Susan called out from the guest bedroom.
I knew she must have found my senior yearbook as she searched through the closet to make sure she’d packed all her stuff. Susan and I had been separated for six weeks. We still lived in the same house but slept in different rooms. She planned to move out as soon as an apartment opened up in Antler Acres.
When Susan made the discovery, I was lying on the couch, drinking a Bud Light, watching a replay of the previous fall’s Nebraska-Iowa football game, and playing solitaire on my iPad. She hadn’t initiated much conversation lately, so I roused myself up from the couch, took a swig from my beer, and walked down the hallway to talk to my wife.
Susan stood between two boxes. Christmas ornaments, books, shoes, blouses and blue jeans, and old photo albums lay scattered across the bed. She held the yearbook in front of my face so I could see the evidence of my past glory. Under a photo of Coach Hermsen handing me a medal after the Bobcat Invitational Cross Country Meet was the caption, “Fast Eddie gets a medal!”
“I told you I ran track and cross country for one year in high school. I just never mentioned the nickname. When I went out for cross country my senior year, I was fast right away, so I became ‘Fast Eddie.” Only my teammates call me that, and I haven’t made it to a reunion since we got together.”
“Yeah, you were too cheap to fly home or pay for the dinner.” Susan book-marked the page with her thumb. “And dinner for two would have been twice as expensive, so you never wanted to go after we married.”
That was our main problem—my frugality, but I decided not to take the bait.
Susan had asked for a divorce during marriage counseling, citing my overly thrifty nature as a big factor. The belly that hung over my belt like a permanent laptop table didn’t help matters either. As we sat on the couch in Dr. Maher’s office with enough space between us for an NFL offensive linemen, Susan looked me in the eye and said, “I’m not attracted to you anymore.” She called me a cheapskate and finished off that last session by saying, “I want a divorce.”
Susan had recently made major changes in her life. She’d joined a group that met twice a week for twelve weeks to prepare for a 5K Color Run, and though she’d planned to walk the race, she ended up jogging the first two miles. I’d never seen her as excited as that morning. She stood on our back deck, her face animated, gesturing with her arms as she replayed the race. “I never ran two miles before. I told myself at the mile marker—‘I’m going for two!’” The race volunteers had blasted Susan six times with dyed corn starch out of spray bottles, so Susan’s shirt—even her arms and face—had been colored a mixture of orange, blue, green, and pink. Susan didn’t like to be dirty or sweaty, but she stood on the deck in the hot sun, still wearing the sweaty shirt with the number 2174 pinned to it. Rings of sweat soaked through under her arms, and a band of sweat splotched the shirt around her collar. “I was considering jogging the whole 5K until I hit the long hill at the two mile mark—but next time I’ll run the whole race!”
Susan looked good! Though drenched in sweat, the ten pounds she’d lost training for the race had increased her confidence and put a bounce in her step. “Next time?” I asked.
“Yes. Some of us girls in the group have decided to keep meeting twice a week. We’re going to run the Doggie Trot 5K at the animal shelter. We start training on Monday.”
“Training?”
“Yes. Training! If all four of us run the whole race next time—and PR—we’re going to treat ourselves to massages.”
“PRs?”
“Personal records.”
I knew what a PR was. I just couldn’t believe Susan was using the running lingo. “Massages aren’t cheap!”
“Well, I’m not going to celebrate climbing mountains—achieving the impossible—by going on a shopping spree at The Dollar Store. After I reach my goals, I’m going to reward myself. And I won’t feel guilty. I’m going to get the tools I need, and the first thing is better shoes. I mean, I have to avoid injuries.” She leaned against the redwood railing and stretched her calves as she talked. “These thirty dollar Wal-Mart shoes don’t cut it. Marliss said Walk and Run Sports has a little track in the store I can test run shoes on, and their experts will find the right pair for my feet.”
“Shoes like that will cost you a hundred bucks,” I said.
“I’ll spend a thousand if it makes me run faster.”
* * *
Thinking back on my remarks now, I wish I could change them. What was the cost of a massage and a good pair of running shoes compared to losing the lady you love? I admit I feel guilty when I spend money for pleasure—an old message from my mother who stretched every dollar to feed a husband and seven kids, but now that it’s costing me my marriage, the message was one I wished I could turn off. It ran through my brain like a favorite song.
* * *
“I bet I could be Fast Eddie again.” The picture brought back so many memories: winning conference, running at state—the invincible feeling I felt when I was in shape. “I could probably make you call me that, too. I could re-earn the nickname.” I patted my stomach with both hands. “I’m a bit overweight, but…”
“A bit?” She smiled at me, gave me a sideways look, and squinted at me like the sun was in her eyes, as if she expected me to change the adjective. When I didn’t, she did it for me. “I’d say a whole lot would be more accurate! You know, in seven years of marriage and three years of dating, I’ve never seen you run a step. I mean, most people have seen their spouses run a step or two through the rain, or take a few quick steps to get into the house during a lightning storm, but I’ve never even seen you do that!” She slammed the book shut as if the Eddie pictured inside no longer existed. “You just get soaked or bet that a lightning bolt isn’t going to hit you even when you’re giving it a big target. Even in the worst of weather, I’ve never seen you do more than waddle.”
“You could at least say, ‘Walk.’ I mean, we’ve been together ten years. Show a little respect.”
“Waddle,” she repeated.
“I race walked a few times.”
“Waddle Walked.”
I tried to remember the last time I jogged a step, but I couldn’t recall it. I hated when Susan was right.
“What do you mean you could re-earn the nickname and make me call you that?” she asked.
“Well, half of what makes a good runner is good genes. Since I went out for cross-country my senior year in high school and was fast right away—I obviously had good genes, and I still have them. They don’t go away.” I tilted my head back and finished off the last three swallows of my beer. “Forty excess pounds might weigh them down, but those running genes are still buried in there. They can be dug up. The other half that makes a good runner is training, and I can train. As I run and get back in shape, I will lose weight. As I lose weight, I will run faster.”
“Waddya gonna do, get up in the morning and run before work.” Susan laughed as if she’d told a funny joke.” Your alarm blasts four times every morning before you finally drag yourself out of bed at the last possible second. You eat your bowl of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch in the car because you’re always running late. I can’t imagine you hauling your butt out of bed early to go for a run.” Susan made room on the bed by stacking a pile of books on the floor and throwing an armful of clothes on top of the pillows. She sat down.
“Well, it might surprise you, but I sometimes think about getting in shape again. I loved how it felt back in the day when running and training was a main focus in my life. I miss that.”
“I’m sure you think about it. Let me guess. You’re going to start tomorrow?” Susan wore a pair of Asics running shoes that looked like an ornate puzzle of pink and black. Everything about her, from her newly styled short bob hairdo to the sports bras and colorful shoes, shouted—“I’ve changed! I’m a new person!” And she was; she was slimmer, agile, more outgoing. She had even volunteered to hug kids at the finish line of the Special Olympics track meet.
I wanted to be offended by her comment, but Susan’s eyes had been saying the same thing to me for weeks. Now when she looked at me, I saw sadness in her eyes as if she saw and felt sorry for—and maybe disgusted by—seeing in me the unchanged version of her old failed self.
I had lost my dreams, but I wanted her to know that I remembered them—that a dreamer still lived inside of me. I’d never told her about Fast Eddie—never told her about my dreams—so I told her now. “In high school, I dreamed of running the Boston Marathon. For years I just assumed I would do it someday. Then I lost my way. I lost that dream—and then I guess I lost all of them.”
Our guest bedroom was our smallest one, but I paced back and forth across the floor. I wanted to move—to go somewhere. “I know I can’t get fast enough to qualify in a year. It might take me three or four—maybe even five years to get into that kind of shape. Running Boston—that’s life-changing stuff. Dreams like that get people out of bed in the morning.”
I did a Google search on my iPad for “Boston Marathon qualifying times.” I found the time for a forty-three-year old male: 3 hrs 15 min 00 sec. I decided to shoot for the next age group time—3 hrs 25 min 00 sec for the 45 to 49 year-old runners because getting fast enough to qualify would be a four or five year task. “I’ll need inspiration if I’m going to qualify, so I’ll go watch Boston next year. While I’m there, I’ll run a shorter race in the area and go to a Sox game. Then I’ll run The New York City Marathon the next year and visit the 9/11 Memorial.”
“And you’ll start tomorrow. And then when tomorrow comes, that alarm will go off four times, and you’ll decide to start the next morning until you just give up and go right back to what you’re doing today—going through the drive-through for a donut and latte on the way to work and driving the two blocks between Monsanto and Burger King on your lunch break.”
Her comment that I’d “start tomorrow” stuck in my craw. How could I prove her wrong? I owned a cheap pair of athletic shoes that fastened with Velcro. I’d purchased them the same day she bought the ones she wore when she trained for her 5K. I didn’t own a pair of shorts, but I still had the swim trunks I wore in the hotel pool when we stayed overnight for my nephew’s wedding last summer. A pair of dress socks would work for one run.
I needed to start tonight by running under the streetlights through the muggy night, wearing my cheap shoes, my swim trunks, and my dress socks. Then I could purchase a real pair of running shoes, shorts, and socks in the morning.
I needed a route to run. If I took a right out of our driveway, there was a short loop—a half-mile at the most. Could I do it?
“I’ll go on my first run right now. Start my comeback tonight.” I liked the word comeback. I’d seen an ESPN “30 For 30” episode about the comeback miler Jim Ryun made for the ’72 Olympics. He ended up falling at the games, but I bet he never regretted trying.
I started toward the hallway to go to my room to round up tonight’s makeshift running gear, but before leaving Susan to her packing, I said, “I’m serious about going to Boston in April. We can start planning tonight, but first I need to start my training—go on my first run. Start my comeback.”
Susan looked me right in the eye, like she had on the doctor’s couch, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t mention the divorce. She was listening—really listening—to me—her still legally married husband. No papers had been signed yet.
“The best time to start is now,” I said. “I can jog up Madison, cut over on Old Coach Road, turn left on Oak, and then run back to Madison. It’s a half-mile at the most. I’m going to give it a shot—tonight.” I bent over and reached over my belly toward my toes—although I didn’t’ come close to touching them—my awkward, stiff attempt at stretching. “I’ll walk if I have to, but I think I can jog it. Run the whole way.”
I didn’t wait for Susan to respond. I went and got dressed. Fast Eddie was going for a run!
* * *
After I dressed, I went back to the guest room, but Susan wasn’t there.
I walked out to the living room and found her standing by the front door.
“I’ll run with you, Fast Eddie!” Susan said the name like I was a different person. I hadn’t been Fast Eddie in over twenty years—she’d never known that me—but her saying the name made it feel brand new—like the promise of a changed person. “I hear Boston is beautiful in the spring!”
“We’re going to find out.” I turned on the outside light and held the door open for her. We stepped outside onto the front stoop. Susan followed me as I walked down the driveway. I stopped on the street.
I felt sweat on my forehead and my arms. It was muggy. I knew a cold front was moving through after midnight. It would be so much easier to do this in the morning. As if reading my mind, Susan said, “Ready, Fast Eddie, set, go!”
I took a deep breath, pumped my arms, and took one small step—and then a second one and a third. I’m sure I looked ridiculous. I was waddle jogging, barely moving forward, but making the motions of a runner.
Susan stayed by my side, slowing her pace to match mine. “Don’t overdo it. It’s okay to walk the first time.” I couldn’t remember the last time I heard concern in Susan’s voice.
I knew I couldn’t run the whole loop, but I wanted to go as far as possible. Our route finished with an uphill climb and then the long downhill to the house. I set my mind on making it to the base of the hill. I was panting like a dog thirsting for a drink on a scorching summer day. I couldn’t talk unless I stopped, so I just listened as Susan kept up a steady stream of encouraging words. “You’ve already done more than I thought you could. Each step shows you’re a champion. A month from now this distance will just be a warm-up. Fast Eddie lives!”
Shadowy pockets of light from the streetlights lit up the pavement. I willed myself to take three, four, five more steps down the middle of the deserted street. Every time I counted five steps, I started over, convincing myself that after I ran the next five I’d stop and walk, but then I’d glance over at Susan and decide to jog five more.
Susan eased down the road, showing no signs of stress—her quiet and rhythmic breathing in sharp contrast to my wheezing gasps. Every time I looked at her, she smiled at me, and I resolved to do another one, two, three, four, five steps.
* * *
At the base of the hill, I stopped. I put both hands on my knees and panted. I stood up straight and placed both hands on my head and opened my mouth wide, attempting to get more air into my lungs. My right calf cramped. I vigorously massaged it, and then leaned into the curb to stretch it out. My chest felt a weight pressing down on it.
“I can see the house,” Susan said. “The finish line is in sight!” She reached up, took my right hand, and held it in hers. She started walking up the hill, with my hand clasped in hers.
“You’re almost there,” she said. “You’re going to make it.” I limped along, energized by her encouraging words. “We’ll ice those legs in the tub tonight. I’ll call Triple A tomorrow—after our morning run. They’ll help us book a trip to Boston.”
I still hadn’t caught my breath enough to talk, but I squeezed her hand to answer yes to all of her plans, so she kept talking—planning—as we walked down the final hill that led to our street.
I leaned on Susan as I hobbled across the driveway and back to the front stoop where we started.
I held the door open for her. “Thanks, Fast Eddie,” she said as we went inside and disappeared into our home.