I laugh, because he’s definitely got race-day fever.
Or maybe this is what Kyro meant by “race-day magic”—it’s just exciting to be here.
There don’t seem to be any other teens in the holding area. Some college kids, maybe, but it’s mostly adults, and some of them are gnarled and weathered seniors. Tough old birds!
“I’m a palindrome!” Rosa says about her 393 race number. She looks cozy in the wheelchair, with a turtleneck under her T-shirt, mittens on her hands, and a blanket over her lap.
I laugh and flash her my 369 race bib. “Yeah, and I’m a magical mathematical progression.”
I’ve never had a race bib before, but I like it.
I’ve also never had a timing chip strapped to my shoe, but I like it, too.
They make me feel official.
Best of all, though, I like our T-shirts. Kyro helped Fiona with them, and they came out great. They’re white, with big maroon letters that say ROOT FOR ROSA on the front and TEAM ROSA on the back.
Rosa’s is a little different—hers says HELLO! I’M ROSA.
Kyro informed us that all the cross-country helpers are wearing TEAM ROSA shirts today. “They’ll also have energy gels for you at the water stops,” he told me. “Be smart—stay hydrated and keep your fuel up.”
Fiona and the others decided against carrying signs, but they did make pendant flags for the wheelchair that say ROOT FOR ROSA and THANK YOU!
Our setup looks awesome!
Plus the boys and Rosa have clappers, and Fiona’s got a horn.
We definitely look like a celebration.
“I’ll be right back,” Mario says, handing his clapper to Fiona as he heads off to wait in a Porta-Potty line.
Fiona shakes her head because it’s his fourth trip since we arrived.
“He’s nervous?” I ask, and suddenly I’m thinking I could use a trip to the bathroom myself.
But there’s a woman approaching us. She’s wearing a TEAM ROSA shirt, but she’s not a cross-country runner.
She’s a math teacher.
“Ms. Rucker?” Fiona and I say together.
She’s wearing running shorts and tightly laced yellow-and-black Sauconys.
And a racing bib.
Number 27.
But it’s her bare legs that are somehow shocking to see.
“Hi, girls,” she says. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”
“You’re a runner?” Fiona asks.
Ms. Rucker gives her a little shrug. “In my private life, yes.”
“Wow,” Fiona says.
I’m noticing Ms. Rucker’s watch—it’s a serious runner’s watch. And her shorts have little pouches built in—I can see the tops of energy gels peeking out from both sides of her hips.
I wonder how she calculates her pace—with her watch or with her brain.
I wonder if she thinks in numbers the whole way.
If she counts her steps.
But despite all the indications that she’s a machine, her shirt isn’t made of that fancy sweat-wicking technical fabric that would be on par with the rest of her gear.
It’s cotton, and more than just a little too big.
“Thanks for wearing the T-shirt,” I tell her.
She smiles, first at me, then at Rosa.
It’s an amazing sight.
Warm, and a little bit shy.
“Proud to wear it,” she says, then moves away. “Run strong,” she says. “I’ll see you at the finish line.”
I watch her go.
Run strong.…
I decide right then that that’ll be my mantra for this race.
“All runners to the start!” someone announces over a portable PA. “Five minutes!”
Gavin checks his watch and says, “Maybe I should hunt down Mario?”
We crane our necks, checking the Porta-Potty lines. And after another minute of waiting, we’re getting really antsy. Everyone in the holding area is moving toward the street.
Then suddenly, there he is. “Sorry!” he says. “We ready?”
Fiona laughs. “Yea-ah.”
“Let’s go!” Gavin says, leading us toward the street.
“This is so exciting!” Rosa says as I roll her along.
I laugh, because we’re all like little windup toys, straining at the springs.
A runner calls, “Go, Rosa!” as he jogs by us.
“Thanks!” she calls back. Then she looks over her shoulder and says, “Go, Jessica!”
We position ourselves at the back of the pack, near a group of men wearing grass hats, with hula skirts over their running shorts.
“One minute!” the announcer calls.
My heart speeds up.
I feel suddenly light-headed.
And then there’s the pop of the starting gun.
It’s time.
IT’S THE STRANGEST START to a race I’ve ever experienced.
There’s no shooting from the blocks, no arm pumping, no push or strain. There are hundreds of runners in front of us, and we’re barely even jogging as we move forward. It takes nearly two minutes for us to reach the starting mat.
The mat is broad and rubbery, runs the full width of the street, and makes a chirping sound as it recognizes each runner’s timing chip.
Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp … It’s like hyperactive twittering of mechanical chicks.
And then we’re off.
I know, from having run the course in training, that the first two miles are slightly downhill, which makes the beginning of the run really enjoyable. People cheer for us, and Rosa waves and clacks her clappers in the air and calls, “Hi!” and “Thank you!”
I see Mom and Dad and Kaylee and Sherlock at the sidelines, and Kyro is there, too, cheering us on.
“You are doing great,” Gavin says at the two-mile mark. He’s checking his watch. “Nine thirty splits.”
I know this is way too fast, but I feel great and figure we’ll slow down now that the downhill is behind us. “Splits,” I snort, then grin at him. “You have become such a runner.” I lean forward a bit. “How are you doing, Rosa?”
“Great! Who knew I could run this fast!” she says with a laugh. She looks over her shoulder. “I am loving this! How are you?”
“Great!” I call back, and it’s true—I feel amazing.
The course is basically U-shaped. It starts near the River Outlets, then passes by retail shops and commercial properties before moving through newer residential developments, older houses, farmland, and then just fields.
The halfway point is the Queensland Drawbridge, which arches over the river, and then the course winds back toward the historic settlement houses and into Old Town. The finish is about half a mile past Old Town.
Since I’ve run the route during training, I know—the easiest stretch is behind us. I need to conserve. And in the back of my mind I’m saying, Slow down. There’s no way you should be running nine thirties.
But I don’t want to slow down.
I am having a great time.
The crowds are thick—people are cheering like crazy.
For Rosa, and for me.
“There she is! There’s that girl!”
“Go, Jessica! Go, Rosa!”
Mario and Gavin flap their clappers through the air, and Fiona toots her horn. “Thank you!” Rosa calls back, and waves like she’s in a parade.
Which I guess, in a way, she is.
As we pass through the residential section, the crowds thin out. There are only small pockets of people now. They call from their porches or stand on the sidewalks and tell runners, “You’re looking good! You’re doing great! Keep it up!”
Then the small pockets of people vanish as we run along the road through farmland. There are some cows, but they don’t moo, let alone cheer.
At first it’s very picturesque. The course has leveled out, the trees are lovely, and the river looks serene. But I’m very relieved to spot our mile-four pit crew, and it worries me.
<
br /> Why am I this fatigued?
It’s Linzy Griggs and Shandall Norwood at the water station, and Linzy is bouncing up and down in her TEAM ROSA T-shirt. “There they are! There they are!” she cries.
“Looking good!” Shandall says, handing me a cup of Gatorade.
“Thanks.” I gulp the Gatorade and accept an energy gel.
“You’re almost halfway,” Linzy says. “You’re doing great!”
We press on, and I squeeze the gel into my mouth a little at a time as I run.
It tastes like chocolate frosting, and it revives me a little. When I’m done, Gavin takes my empty pouch from me and asks, “You doing okay?”
I nod, but it’s only halfhearted. “What’s our pace?”
“Ten thirties at the four-mile mark.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head.
“No wonder! I can’t keep this up. It’s killin’ me!”
He immediately drops back the pace. “Hey!” he calls up to Fiona and Mario. “We’ve gotta ease up a little.”
Fiona falls in beside me. “What’s hurting?”
“I’m okay,” I tell her. I keep my voice low so Rosa can’t hear. “I’ve only run this weight five miles before, and it took me about an hour. That’s, like, twelves, and we’re doing ten thirties!”
Fiona slows down even more. “This better?”
I nod, but it’s strange—it’s like the damage is done, and slowing down isn’t undoing it. My breathing won’t fall into a comfortable rhythm, my hips have an unfamiliar ache to them, and my arms feel very heavy.
When we reach and crest the Queensland Drawbridge, I am immensely relieved.
“Halfway there!” Fiona says, pepping me along.
“And a bit of downhill,” I say, grateful for gravity’s help with the wheelchair.
The mile-six water stop is in the middle of nowhere—an oasis in a desert of dried grass. And what’s even better than the oasis is that Annie and Giszelda are working the station.
“There they are!” Giszelda cries.
“Come ’n’ get it, you crazy people!” Annie shouts.
“Crazy doesn’t even begin to describe it! They’re nuts!”
“Wackos!”
“A runnin’ and rollin’ insane asylum!”
“Amen!”
We all laugh and get our cups. I actually don’t feel like drinking, but I hear Kyro’s voice in my head: Be smart—stay hydrated and keep your fuel up.
So I drink.
And I take an energy gel.
And I press on.
Six miles, I tell myself. Only four to go. One plus one plus one plus one.
It feels a little fuzzy in my head. Like I’ve got the wrong number of ones. Like I’m so fatigued that I can’t even count to four.
One plus one plus one plus one.
And somewhere in my fuzzy mind I make a connection—that’s how everything is done.
One by one by one by one.
That’s how I got through losing a leg.
Minute by minute by minute by minute.
Hour by hour by hour by hour.
Day by day by day by day.
That’s how anybody makes it through anything.
So I dig in and decide that’s how I’ll face the miles ahead—one by one by one by one.
Something in that makes the pain easier to take, makes the effort easier to endure. And then, near the seven-mile mark, I realize we’re passing by the cemetery.
I think about seeing Lucy’s mom there the other morning.
I think about her making it through what had to be the hardest days of her life; how she had to take the minutes, the hours, the days, the months, one by one by one by one.
Suddenly I’m grateful that the ones I’m counting off are miles. Miles I’m able to run. Miles I asked for. Miles I’ve worked hard to face. My ones are a distance between me and victory, not days between me and tragedy.
Fiona’s in step beside me, and I pant out, “Lucy,” and nod up to the cemetery.
“Ohhhh,” she says, and her face crinkles with sadness.
“We miss you, Lucy!” I call up the hill.
“We miss you, Lucy!” Fiona calls too.
All of us glance at one another, then together we shout, “WE MISS YOU, LUCY!”
The next stretch brings us back into neighborhoods. There aren’t a lot of people out, but those who are, are loud and happy. Like the coffee has kicked in and the clapping is keeping them warm.
“GO, ROSA!” they shout, and then they realize that they’ve seen us on TV. “HEY—you’re those girls! Good for you! You show ’em! GO, GO, GO!!”
Mario and Gavin start up with their clappers again, and Rosa waves and giggles and shouts, “THANK YOU!” to everyone who cheers for us, and keeps me going by calling to me over her shoulder, “This is the best day of my life!”
With each block the crowds get thicker.
People are out on their balconies getting an aerial view.
Rosa waves and clicks her clapper, but I’m slumping again. And my hips are killing me.
“Mile eight!” Gavin calls, pointing ahead.
Two to go, I tell myself. One, and one more.
I drink at the aid station, but only water. And although I try to eat the energy gel, I can’t stomach it.
The crowds grow noisier, but I turn inward. I feel like I’ve hit the Rigor Mortis Bend of the River Run. It’s only two more miles, but it’s payback time for the two first miles—every step from here on is at a slight incline.
People are shouting my name, Rosa’s name.
I see familiar faces.
I see my dad.
My mom.
Kaylee and her friends.
How did they get there?
I wave, I smile, but I don’t really have the energy to do either.
Sounds are murky—they’re having trouble making it through the pounding from inside.
I’m vaguely aware that we’re passing people.
Runners who are now walking.
But we’re being passed, too.
By men in grass skirts.
It’s okay, I tell myself. You’re doing great. Run strong, run strong, run strong.…
I don’t even see the nine-mile marker as we go by. Gavin points it out. “Only one to go!” he calls, but it’s like a ghost whispering in my ear.
My legs are lead.
My arms ache.
My hips are cramping, demanding I stop. Especially my left one. It’s an agonizing knot of pain.
And my stump—it’s hot.
Wet.
Angry.
Run strong, run strong, run strong.…
But I’m living step to step. I start counting them.
I get to fifty and start over.
Step by step by step by step.
A young girl runs out from the crowd, touches me, and dashes away before I even know she’s been there.
“GO, JESSICA!” I hear people shout.
“RO-SA! RO-SA! RO-SA!” they chant.
Then Fiona shouts, “There it is!”
I know what she means.
I look up; look out. There’s a red-and-white balloon arch only fifty yards ahead.
“The finish line!” Rosa cries. “The finish line!”
I try to soak in the happy sounds of her voice, the ecstatic clacking of her clapper. I try to remember why I did this.
“RO-SA! RO-SA! RO-SA!”
“JES-SI-CA! JES-SI-CA!”
I dig in, dig deep. The cheering helps me find a hidden reserve.
The balloon arch is growing larger.
The crowd louder.
Larger.
Louder.
I manage a weak wave, a smile.
And then, with a chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp, we’ve crossed over.
Over the finish line.
I’m aware that people are taking pictures.
I’m aware that the news crew is there.
I’m aware that Ro
sa is in seventh heaven; that random strangers are talking to her and treating her like a friend. “It was great! Thank you!” she’s telling them as a race-day helper cuts the timing chip off my shoe.
I’m aware that my family and Kyro are there, telling me how proud they are.
I’m aware that we’re all making our way over to Regatta Park, where the breakfast celebration is being held.
It’s all sort of fuzzy in my head because I’m shaky and exhausted, but I’m also aware that I’m very, very happy. I’m surrounded by friends, by family, by my teammates and coach, and by warm, supportive strangers. They’ve all helped me in some way get over that finish line.
But as we gather in Regatta Park and help ourselves to scrambled eggs, orange juice, and bagels, I realize something.
That wasn’t a finish line for me.
Eight months ago it was a herculean effort to walk myself and my IV stand to the bathroom.
Today I ran my friend ten miles across her first finish line.
Eight months ago I couldn’t do anything.
This race has made me believe that there’s nothing I can’t do.
This is my new starting line.
The following people were invaluable in helping me through this fascinating, educational, and extremely emotional journey:
Greg “Pegleg Greg” Birkholz, a true survivor who focuses on what he has, not what he’s lost, and whose insider view and comments were very helpful.
Adele Schneidereit, who does indeed “inspire the world” with her accomplishments, her attitude, and her awareness campaign regarding cerebral palsy.
Greg “Sark” Sarkisian, track coach supreme and steadfast friend, who helped me fine-tune the track scenes.
John D. Hollingsead, CPO, whose cooperation and expertise were essential to the accuracy of this story.
Dana Cummings, executive director of the Association of Amputee Surfers, whose work with vets is amazing. I’ll never forget our run through town.
Samantha Ford, whose cheerful spirit and love of dance are inspiring.
Mark Stipanov, whose background in prosthetics was extremely useful as I was struggling to climb the learning curve.
My high school track buddies, who faced the winds and forged strong spirits circling the Oval of Pain.