For a Girl, J.T. D'Arelli [reading fiction txt] 📗

"58...! 59...! 60...!" Coach Bradford called out the times as I ran past.

Right on schedule. One lap down, three to go. Tilden was just where I wanted him, two strides in front of me. Already we had broken away from the rest of field. With 3/4 of the race still in front of us, the real running wouldn't start for a while yet. But in the mile, you don't want to wait too long to make your move.

My name's Jack Lind. I'm a 17-year old high-school senior. I guess you could consider me a pretty ordinary guy, except for one thing: I eat, breathe and sleep track and field. My specialty is the mile run and today I'm trying to do something no high school boy has done in 34 years: run a sub 4-minute mile.

Coach Bradford and I had been plotting this for months. I live in Milford, a quiet little farm town in upstate New York — about halfway between Binghamton and Syracuse. I'd been running cross country and track for my school since the 7th grade, but only in the last couple of seasons had my times improved to the point where a lot of people were starting to take notice.

I finished last year with a personal best of 4:12 for the mile — which had led to a third place performance at the state championships. Over the summer and through the fall cross-country season, my training had become more intense than ever. But what had really made a difference was finally getting my growth spurt. In less than a year I had gained 3 inches in height and my stamina had improved tremendously as well.

Tilden and I passed our coaches to complete the second lap. He was still two strides in front and I was more than content to draft off him for a little longer. Two more laps to go. We had completed the half-mile in just over two minutes, so my goal was still in sight.

Ten days ago, I had run a 4:05. I was racing on a cinder track, with no competition to speak of. I'm not trying to be arrogant; it's just that in the local athletic district of which Milford was a part, I was 30 seconds faster than anyone else.

But it was that performance that had convinced Coach Bradford the time was ripe for my attempt at the 4-minute mile. The first major invitational of the year was Cortland, a larger college town about an hour's drive away. More than 30 schools would be competing. Unlike any of the schools in my district, Cortland boasted a high-performance synthetic track, which would provide a superb surface for a fast time. Also, the stadium was equipped with electronic timing, which was a must for any record to be valid. Stopwatches were not acceptable for the national books.

Plus, Tilden would be there.

Kevin Tilden was the fastest high-school miler in New York. He had won the race for the state title last year, the one where I finished third. He had already improved his personal best of 4:07 earlier this season, which (along with my 4:05) was enough to raise eyebrows of track fans across the country. Quite a number of people were looking forward to this match up.

Tilden and me most of all.

It's very hard for track athletes, particularly middle and long distance runners to achieve their best times unless there is strong competition. Both Tilden and I wanted to use this meet, and each other, to reach new levels of excellence. My coach and I, however, were keeping our plans for the 4-minute barrier to ourselves.

Halfway through the third lap now. I could sense Tilden was slowing a bit — the pace had been torrid. The third lap is the most critical in a mile run. Races were often won or lost during that 400-meter stretch, even though the fans might not realize it. I could accept the slowing pace, and then I could set up a tactical run from here to the end - hanging behind Tilden until the final homestretch, then 'kicking' it on in.

If I settled for that, I might win the race — but I would not break any records. I had to maintain this speed if I wanted to get below four minutes. That meant I would have to move past Tilden now.

So I did. This was not a championship competition, just a mid-season invitational. There was no title on the line. But I really wanted that time! I shifted to a higher gear, ran past Tilden, and moved quickly back to the rail as soon as I was legally ahead (you aren't allowed to cut off other runners when you pass — you need at least two steps).

Tilden was now behind me, which meant he could draft off of me, allowing me to force a path through the air for him. It sounds silly, but drafting is a common technique in many sports, from speed skating to cycling. However, if I could get far enough ahead, then he wouldn't gain any advantage.

The three-lap time — 3:01. That meant I would have to run a 59-second quarter for the last lap to break the barrier. My legs were feeling a little burn, but my lungs were strong, and I concentrated on maintaining a steady stride. Behind me, I could sense Tilden fading as I picked up the speed.

In 1965 Jim Ryun, America's greatest miler, ran a 3:55 as a high-school senior in Kansas. Ryun went on to break the world record for the mile with a 3:51 and also earned an Olympic silver medal in 1972.

In 1966 and 1967, two other high-school athletes broke 4 minutes with times of 3:59 — Tim Danielson and the legendary Marty Liquori. Since then, no high-school boy in the United States had run the mile in under 4 minutes, let alone approached Ryun's record of 3:55.

A stretch of more than 30 years. I was determined beat that streak.

Two hundred meters to go. Tilden had fallen far back, but there were several hundred fans and even some press making a lot of noise, encouraging me. My lungs were burning now and I had to focus on keeping my pace smooth.

Distance running is very psychological. Often, the race is won not by the fastest, but the strongest, the one who can best master his pain when every nerve in his body is crying for relief.

Just like mine were now.

One hundred meters to go. God, it hurt! But everyone was screaming for me, Coach Bradford loudest of all. Believe me, it makes a difference to have that support. I gritted my teeth, swallowed down my stomach, and plunged the final steps over the line. Gasping, my hands on my knees, I raised my eyes to look at the scoreboard clock.

3:59.5.

I'd done it! A huge roar went through the crowd as it sunk in. I was immediately surrounded by a mass of humanity, and nearly knocked off my feet by Coach Bradford. Since he doubles as the football coach and goes in at 6'3, 240 — it was quite an impact. But I managed to keep my feet while I tried to catch my breath.

A feeling of elation swept through me as I realized what I had done. Not only had I just become the fastest high school miler in the country, I was the fastest in the last three decades. And I still had half the season in front of me!

Everyone was talking at once. Tilden came up and congratulated me. He'd come in at 4:04, his best time ever. But I could sense his disappointment — I knew what it felt like, since he'd defeated me the year before. He'd have other chances, though — when we met again at the state championships. I knew he'd be hungry for another try.

But for now, this was my moment. I shook so many hands, I felt like a politician. Gradually, though, the excitement died down, and we moved off the track. It was time for the girl's mile — and Milford had a pretty good runner in that race, Becky Barton. I had a lot of respect for her and the rest of the girl's team — I didn't want all the chaos of my performance to interfere.

Still, while watching Becky run from the stands, I was mobbed by coaches, athletes and fans. In addition, two of the local papers had reporters, trying to get a recap from me. I kept one eye on the track while I described everything that was going on. Next to me, Coach Bradford was reciting how our strategy had been planned. I broke off for a moment to cheer Becky on as she entered the homestretch. Kicking hard, she crossed the line in third place, with a time of 5:13.

A fine time for her — and a new school record for the Milford girls. We all cheered loudly as she smiled up at us. I was still fielding questions, but I yelled out my congratulations to her. She and I, along with all of the distance runners (half-mile, mile and 2-mile) were a close community — a team within a team.

This was common among tracksters. Sprinters, hurdlers, jumpers, throwers — we all rooted for each other, but our events required such different styles of training that we bonded most with those who practiced and competed by our sides. Of course, the fact that Becky and the other girls looked so cute in their tight running briefs didn't hurt either.

It seemed as though my race had generated an infectious energy for all of our competitors. Milford had many top three finishes, along with excellent times and distances. Best of all, Hal Turner, one of my closest friends, won the two-mile in 9:36 — which was sure to be a contending performance at the bigger meets later in the year.

It was a great bus ride home. Needless to say, Coach Bradford was in a very good mood. Everyone was singing, cheering and recounting the stories of the meet. Milford had finished 3rd in the team standings — which was all the more impressive considering many of the schools were two or three times our size. Becky, Hal and the rest of our distance crew traded jokes and basked in the atmosphere of accomplishment.

We arrived back at the Milford high school campus, where my mother was waiting to pick me up. Everyone said a final goodbye and Coach Bradford told us to report for a light workout tomorrow. We still had some small meets before the big competitions at the end of the season, and he wanted our training to peak at the right time.

I got in the old Civic with my mother.

"How did it go?" she asked.

"I did it! I broke 4 minutes!"

"Congratulations."

And that was it. My mother and I definitely had a rocky relationship. She had divorced when I was very young and she'd never remarried. Since I had no siblings, it was just the two of us. Sometimes that makes family even closer. Sometimes not.

In my case, I loved my mother very much, and I knew she loved me back. But we had struggled throughout my teenage years. She worked very hard as an administrative assistant in a local factory, and she had a lot of expectations for me — academic achievement, excellent colleges and so forth.

I made good grades — I was even on the honor society. But I was a notch below the best students in my class. That hardly bothered me, since track was my priority. I was already being recruited by many colleges and I just didn't have the same intensity about studying. My mother felt differently, though. She believed my classes should come first and track a