The Year is 2027...

By this time, Jordan Hasay, removed from the limelight, will have a small desire to be like Suzy. Maybe as a MILF-coach in the eyes of teenagers she could "counsel" the young Colt as a distraction. Especially if she is being coached by the Gouchers. That could be an in! Jordan would still want 'bertos approval and would do anything for it even if it meant betraying the people who took her in. Coach Adam would be like "niiiiiice" whereas Kara would take to the internet and #demandjusticeforcolt.

HAHAHAHA that update was the best-f'ing-yet!

i especially loved this part:

"Salazar picks up a glass, ice cubes clinking. He wipes the condensation on his black Oiselle sweatpants."

MAN that was good.

Woo hoo! You sure do have a way with words OP(Or whoever wrote that), that is a wonderful story and I hope for the next every time!

-Letsrun Literature Club Member ;)

Wait, I assumed you all realize that this recent chapter is not from the OP. If this becomes a story contributed by various authors, well, OK, but I sure liked the OP's writing. Probably better than the next chapter I have in mind! Maybe they'll be back......

Matt Withrow needs to lose weight. That is a glaring reality. He and famous former-frat-bro-turned-running-hero Ben St. Lawrence are running downtown through the Portland drizzle. Withrow's knees ache and his stomach grumbles. He comes to a stop and bends down to fiddle with his shoelaces, though they remain perfectly tied.

He has stopped in front of a french bakery’s window display. Withrow presses his nose against the glass and stares longingly at the rows of golden pastries. The matron beckons him inward St. Lawrence puts his hand on Withrow's shoulder and leans to his ear.

"Come on Matt, you know you can't have those."

As Withrow stands up, his shoulders sag in defeat. He responds, " I just don't see how you did it, Ben. I mean 27:24? You looked like you belonged with Belushi in Animal House!"

"You’ve gotta trust the process, mate. That's why I'm here."

"Even if you could do it, you were still never as bad as I am now. Why should I have any hope?"

"Because I never beat Galen Rupp in high school. You can do this Matt. One step at a time."

As Withrow pulls himself away from the boulangerie and, almost inaudibly, he says to himself, "you're going down, Colt."

St. Lawrence pretends he doesn’t hear but smiles nonetheless as they start to jog away. Ben thinks to himself: He is beginning to believe.

Behind them, the matron has come out to clean Withrow’s greasy nose-print off the window.

Stanley Kiptoo-Biwott sits cross-legged on a simple cushion, eyes closed and hands folded carefully in his lap. A forty-seven year old Gabe Jennings sits across from him. Jennings wears a simple robe. His hair is streaked with gray; his eyes smile at the edges. In his hand he holds a short wooden dowel, which he uses to strike a gong. One, two, three, four, five times. He silences it with his hand before it rings out. Together, they draw a deep breath and let out a guttural hmph.

An elegant bamboo structure shelters them from the gentle rain falling in the garden. A shallow pond is circumnavigated by gently arcing stone paths, a simple bridge bisecting its middle. A waterfall, a fern grove, and a stand of bamboo accent the surroundings. A thrush alights and begins to splash and shake in the water.

Biwott looks ten years younger. When opens his eyes, they too are smiling at the corners. Jennings speaks first.

"What was the source of the tightness as Mr. Withrow passed by at Balboa?"

"Steam rising on tea."

Jennings eyebrows jump in recognition. His student has mastered his teaching, and is ready to face anything. They bow to one another. Biwott rises and walks out, light and purposeful, as if each step towards Colt were the only thing in the universe.

Ryan Hall grunts between 160 pound curls. The veins in his glistening biceps pop up more with each rep, a pulsating subway map under his perfectly tanned skin. He racks the massive dumbbells, a cannonball impact, and Galen flinches. He strides over and claps Rupp on the shoulder.

"No question about it: We need to up your Test, Galen. That's what's holding you back. And I think I know just how to get it done: all natural."

A beautiful woman wraps her smooth legs expertly around a brass pole and arches her thin back. She lets go with her hands and gracefully inverts, smiling. She winks at Rupp as he follows the hulking Hall. Hher long straight hair sways like a curtain beneath her.

"Willikers," Rupp says, instinctually. “Is that…”

Hall interrupts him.

"Welcome to Testo Gym, where bro science meets sports science. Everything in this building is designed to boost your testosterone. Stripper pole. Dead lift. Gun range. We even have a post-workout oyster bar. I also hire weak men you can shove around and best in simple games."

"Shoving people around? That doesn't seem very charitable."

"Big Ry makes his own rules now. Enough talk, G-man, let's get to work. You'll be with Jason Rexing, one out top trainers. He understands this stuff better than anybody. I want you to do a six rep max dead lift followed by a hundred rounds on the AR-15. Neville will shoot with you. He's terrible and the sound scares him. Your confidence should be primed after that to stretch out over by the pole dancers. Lastly, my boy Josh Cox will get you fitted for some new Guccis on the way out. We gotta get you out of those HOKAs.”

Galen looks sheepishly at his bright orange Coconino Cowboy special edition Bondi 13s, Jim Walmsley’s face smiling up from the toe-box.

“Oh and Galen, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"Don't say 'willikers'. It makes you sound like Neville."

Thank Wuhan for the Coronavirus...

Author's Note: I appreciate the contributions of Dread Pirate Goucher. While I cannot verify this account, I cannot also rule-out the possibility that the described events occurred in this or other timelines. I will continue to relay this story to you from my own vantage point. The reader will have to ascertain the veracity of Dread Pirate Goucher's account based on their own intuition.

The set of The Late Show is much the same as Adam Goucher remembers from his last two appearances. The small wooden desk, the empty coffee mug, and the smarmy, crooked smile on Stephen Colbert’s face. He sits in the upholstered blue chair, crosses his legs, and looks out on the audience. The skin is pulled tight on his face, and he basks in the bright lights beating down from above him. He feels at home here.

“How long has it been, Adam?”

“Couple years?”

“After your second New York win, right?”

“After my Boston win, actually.”

Adam smiles. Life is good. He is here to talk about his book, Deer Adam Goucher: Embracing the Trolls and Harnessing the Power of Pure Hate. Things have slowed down since the simulation. His public breakdown on The Today Show forces him to re-evaluate his life. He attends a silent meditation retreat led by Alexi Pappas in the Anza-Borrego Desert. He retires from running again, and brings on Billy to help with Colt’s training.

“Adam, this book isn’t the first time you’ve addressed the trolls. I’m going to read you a quote from 2010. Do you mind?”

Adam laughs and nods. He knows the quote. It’s from his distant past, a different life.

“‘I really, really look forward to the day when I can throw it back in the faces of the doubters. It’s going to be great—crossing the finish line and giving them a big middle finger.’ What changed from that attempt to fuel your comeback with hate, and your more recent success?”

Adam takes a moment to ruminate. He furrows his brow and fiddles with the dial of the understated Cartier watch on his wrist. He exhales, and smiles.

“Well, Stephen, you’ll have to buy the book.”

The audience laughs heartily. Adam soaks it in. He is a man with everything in this moment. America loves him. Deep inside him though, he feels they don’t deserve him. He feels a disgust and a disdain for the faceless hobby joggers and plodders who laud his accomplishment. Where were they when he was at rock bottom? Where were they when he took up the fight against Alberto? They are beneath him. If he didn’t need them, he’d flip them off right now and take a piss on Colbert’s desk.

The lessons from his retreat are forefront in his mind as he resists the urge to let his hate pour out. He bends the hate to fuel his success. He silently recites his personal mantra--I am pure hate incarnate; I am the raging Buffalo. Colbert pulls him from the meditation.

“Adam, the question on everybody’s mind--will the Gouchers respond to Alberto Salazar’s challenge?”

The question catches Adam by surprise. His agent assured him there would be no talk of the simulation or Alberto. He looks daggers at Colbert, and feels his grip on the hate inside beginning to slip. The pop-tart and Gatorade in his stomach churn. His answer comes hard and fast.

“Alberto Salazar is a coward and a cheat. If he wants to challenge Colt, he can ask me himself instead of running his mouth behind cameras.”

The vitriol in his voice is evident and without restraint. He clenches his fists as he tries to regain composure. His nostrils flare as his heart pounds. He takes a deep breath, and the anger begins to recede.

Colbert turns to the camera. He taps his notecards on the desk in front of him, and cracks his neck. This is the reaction he was hoping to get. He smiles his smarmy smile, and looks at Adam from the corner of his eye. He relishes the moment.

“Ladies and gentleman, you’re in for a real treat. I’d like to welcome to the show, three-time New York City Marathon Champion, Alberto Salazar!”

Good to have you back, I like Dread Pirate Gourcher's storyline as well.

This is outrageous. No, way Colt would've been 4th. He'd have been 6th tops, behind McDougal and Benjamin True, beating out Ryan Deak, as long as Colt didn't blow up completely from trying to run with the top 5.

It is May of 2027...

After Adam's debacle on The Late Show with Colbert, the stage has been set for an early December matchup between some of Footlocker's GOAT, and the spawn of two of the greatest Colorado athletes. After the tertiary Pandemic of 2025, the US Department of Education has allowed any individual with a valid Zoom account to attend the nationalized high school curriculum. So long as Withrow, Galen, and Shadrack reduce the video quality to 540, and respond in the chat of their presence, they pass their respective classes with no question of age or credentials. Salazar's plan has turned out to be even easier than once thought.

Out on the ranch, Adam has directed his pure hatred of hobby-joggers, piss-ants, and the contemptible Salazar towards Colton and his pursuit of putting the Footlocker greats of the past to shame. He focuses on the one thing his 1990's college brain could not wrap its head around: running with your midfoot instead of pounding the qodd@m sh8t out of the ground with your heals.

Colton has taken after his father in this regard. Upon entering the 9th grade, Adam relished in how similar the two's foot strike was. As Colton started to pile up accolades, it was the big middle finger Adam had wanted to give all those "scientists" who told him his form would lead to his inevitable breakdown. "What do they know?" He always thought.. "No one knows what it takes to be an NCAA champion, if I could do it with heel-striking, to h*ll with em all!"

As Adam studied the tape, however, he could not deny the obvious truths of his inadequacies. It was only upon fixing these that he managed to climb back a top the heap to attain marathon success. Colton would have to do the same, there was no question.

"Your form Colton, it will take you to the next level. You can beat the kenyans at NCAAs heel striking, sure. But to take down Rupp? Shadrack? You must be the supple leopard" Adam's tone is stern, but Colton can tell that embued in this message is a deep pang of regret from his father. The mobility wod's his family has pushed have had its place all along. Colton can tell from rewatching the 1998 NCAA championships in 360 video quality of that his father probably could not touch his kneecaps. He knows his hamstrings would have snapped without the supreme focus possessed by the mind of a fierce competitor with only one directive: crush the soul of his opponent.

"I understand dad" Colton says softly. He recruits the help of one of Salazar's former staff, from seemingly a generation ago. He knows it will sting Salazar and add another layer of intrigue to the matchup. The one and only Steve Magness. Now the head track coach of Houston after Leroy Burrel's departure to focus on his son, Magness has ascended to heights only once dreamed of. He is in a position to coach the most elite, and Colton fits the mold.

"Ok Colt" Magness says, "We're gonna run you through some pretty simple tests first to see where you're at, and then we'll go from there". Astonishingly, Magness only recommends a few adjustments.

"Your form isn't too bad" He says. "Your footstrike will need some minor adjustments, but your arm carriage is solid and you run smooth." Colton goes through the work, and over the next few months, he can feel himself improve.

"Before I felt like I was reaching" He states emphatically "But, now, now I feel like I'm ready to hunt".

"That's the idea Colton, you're primed and ready"

Colton sleeps easier once he has addressed this issue, but it does not last long. He has doubts no amount of preparation can erase. His parents are counting on him to destroy the Salazar camp. His legs must be used as weapons to fight back against the tyranny of Czar Salazar's regime. He must uphold the family name, bear it, and take it into the innermost concentric circle of running glory his father and mother could not.

As he slips into a restless sleep, the heavy tube from the cabin creeps into his conscience, another dynamic that will weigh on him as he traverses his trials of High School running glory.

This was almost a good part 4, but you violated the canon. Adam Goucher is in the best shape of his life and a lock-in for the 2028 Olympic team, remember? He wouldn't be breathing hard at six minute pace. He'd barely break a sweat

Matt Witthrow turns off the TV and zips himself out of the Alter G treadmill in the basement of Galen Rupp’s two-story Portland home. He’s down to a svelte 164 pounds, at least when he’s on the Alter G. The last two months have gone by in a whirlwind. His plantar fascia aches as he steps out of the plastic bubble and reaches for the Clorox wipes to clean the surface. It’s nice to feel something after so many years of apathy.

He pulls off his headband and grabs a Maurten Cheptegei Detox RecoverPro from the fridge. He takes a long gulp. It tastes like the sweat of a thousand lions. He looks around at the makeshift training camp they’ve set up. Shadrack is meditating in the sauna with noise cancelling headphones and Galen is in the corner deadlifting what looks to be a small apartment complex. A creased centerfold from the most recent issue of Runner’s World hangs above the squat rack. Colt Goucher is a lythe python waiting to strike, neon yellow shorts over supple, tanned thighs. There is a small tattoo visible on his left forearm--There Are No Secrets.

Matt has no hatred for Colt Goucher, no inner rage. He’s met the Gouchers a number of times in informal settings over the years. NCAA XC afterparties, the Olympic Trials, race expos. He remembers Adam as egocentric and Kara as nice enough. This isn’t about revenge for him. Galen’s motivations are clear. The Gouchers stole Alberto from him at the prime of his life. Shadrack was denied the big one over and over again. Both men were surprised when Matt showed up in Portland.

He takes another swig from the steel grey bottle. He thinks on his quiet life in Illinois. Shaddy had called it “comfortable.” The sad, lonely nights on the couch drinking IPAs in a stupor in front of a teen drama from Netflix. His wife sitting across the room giggling at a text from her co-worker, Derek. Waking up hungover and tired and having to hop on another goddamn conference call to talk about improving sales in Buffalo Grove.

“How was the run, Matt?”

Galen interrupts Matt’s ruminations. The pale skin visible through the holes in his Nike Oregon Project singlet glistens with the sweat of his recent effort. His cheeks are flushed and his thinning hair is plastered to his forehead. The question is genuine, and he looks at Matt expectantly.

“It was great, Galen, thanks for asking.”

“Are you done with the Alter-G? I might hop on for some strides.”

“Go for it.”

“It’s a shame we didn’t have Alter-Gs in your prime. Could have helped with some of those injuries.”

Galen glances at the poster of Colt above the fridge. He grabs a fresh pair of Alter-G shorts off a shelf, and pulls them on. He steps into the Alter-G and zips himself in with the quiet grace and dexterity of a man who has done this a million times. He keys up his pace and distance, and launches into his first stride.

Matt wrinkles his nose, breathes deeply, and walks over to the turf stretching area Galen’s set up in the corner of the basement. He sets the Maurten down, and starts to go through his post-run hip mobility routine. He focuses on repeating the mechanics of each movement. In between sets, Shaddy sidles up next to Matt and starts matching his movements. They work together in synchronicity for several minutes, two grown men in pursuit of the perfect donkey kick. Shaddy breaks the silence.

“Tighten your core, Matt. Not so comfortable as Illinois, eh?”

Matt looks down at his rapidly diminishing waistline and feels a bit of that pure hate Goucher is always rambling on about. What does Shaddy know about comfort? What does Galen know about shame? The Gouchers, Alberto, the trolls on Letsrun. None of them know the depths of Matt F*@%ing Witthrow.

c. goucher wrote:

None of them know the depths of Matt F*@%ing Witthrow.

oh man, now I need to know what's going to happen next.

The year is 2027, Kara Goucher mourns her grandpa, who would have turned 107 today if not for Trump's mishandling of the coronavirus pandemic that allowed it to spread to her family.

This thread is incredible.

perhaps it is too soon to coronate young Colt for his running endeavors, but his skill with the sticks.