The Miles Read Online Free Page B

old Amherst T-shirt he had crammed into his bag as he left the office were now a wad of wrinkles. He compared himself to the three runners lined up at the urinals, the slit of their racing shorts and the light tech-fiber of their tank tops lending a clean line to their long, lean bodies. (They were what his mother would have called tall drinks of water .) Liam felt like a dilettante. The people in the club had definitely done their part to make him feel wanted and at home, but he still questioned the wisdom of enlisting in their training program. He hoped that more attractive men who were capable of talking about things other than running might show up to these workouts. Zane had alluded to that possibility during the follow-up call Liam made the day after the fun run, reasserting all the benefits of running intervals on an indoor track and also hinting that “recreational” opportunities existed. After ponying up more money than he could afford—almost half a month’s rent—to join the program, Liam knew he had to follow through even if it meant pissing off the other fact-checkers at the magazine with his early departures twice a week.
    Liam also sensed that pushing himself out of his shell through attending these workouts would be good for facing the insecurities he had about his body, his talent, and his wardrobe. Though he had run in high school and college, Liam had always felt as though he were going through the motions, flying under the radar. In high school, he ran so that he would have a solid extracurricular for his college applications—and he kept it up in college out of habit more than a burning desire to compete. But now after a few years off, Liam felt he was rediscovering something special about the sport, the therapeutic feeling of mental clarity that could be achieved on a run. Liam knew now that this would be the time to push himself.
    Liam made it to the team’s meeting area on the side of the track about ten minutes late but was relieved to see that the evening’s roll call had only just begun. A short black man in impeccably tailored pants and a lavish turtleneck read off a list of names. About twenty Fast Trackers had signed up for the program, and it sounded as though everyone had arrived for the debut session. As the man with the clipboard, whom Liam soon reasoned was the coach, spelled out a series of safety procedures and explained his theories about improving racing performance, Liam’s mind drifted off into the surroundings. Thick-legged sprinters pounded down the banked curves of the track as a female coach with a stopwatch shouted out times. Names of local colleges—Hunter, Fordham, C.W. Post—breezed across the chests of skinny athletes who ran in huddled packs. The seating around the track was limited and everything inside the amphitheater was utilitarian. There were the large digital displays of time ticking by and the storage rooms for the javelin, high jump, and shot put equipment. Each field event had its own little station on the interior of the elliptical track, but Liam couldn’t believe that collisions between runners and field athletes didn’t happen regularly given the confined space. The track itself looked teeny and manageable, which Liam found comforting. He had overheard the coach noting that eight rotations around the track equaled one mile.
    â€œSo what did I say to convince you?” Zane whispered to Liam as the coach said something about easing everyone into the 200-meter track with forty-five minutes of “hut-hut” running.
    â€œI think I just needed a change of pace,” Liam answered. “And, no pun intended there.”
    Liam had not been able to distill the reason when mulling over the decision in recent days and surprised himself now with such an apt response. Nothing had changed in his life in the past five years—same job, same apartment, same body. The only thing he cycled through was