The men stand together, but distant enough to avoid the need for small talk. The dusk has already progressed to darkness and each glances at his watch occasionally, checking the time, an old habit, as the daily Portland mist pushes them along the scale from damp to wet. The beam of the corner streetlight is broken; all three look up at once to see a dark limousine come to a halt in front of them. The window rolls down and a familiar face materializes.
“Get in,” Salazar barks.
A smile jumps across Rupp’s face as he bounds towards the open door. Kiptoo, shivering, follows, while Withrow lumbers behind. Before he’s even able to slam the door, the four are skirted away into the cool, dark night.
“You all know why you’re here,” Salazar begins, the sodium glow of the streetlights making his jagged face appear a deep, dark orange. “I don’t need to tell you all why this is important to me; you all know my history with the Gouchers. And you all what the simulation has said. The kid can be beaten. This is our chance -- all of our chance -- for…” Salazar paused and his eyes seemed to swim. His voice cracked ever so slightly on the last word: “...redemption.”
“But look at us -- look at me,” Withrow interjects. “I’m 20 years and 100 pounds from anything remotely resembling fit. Maybe if we had a time machine and could really send Cole back to that day in ‘03 it’d work out in our favor, but now, I mean look at us! We couldn’t even be competitive masters runners right now. Shadrack’s getting letters from AARP. The other week, Galen got outkicked by Alan Webb again! In 19:30!”
Rupp and Kiptoo look at Withrow, what appears to be a half-eaten snickers poking out of the breast pocket of his extra large dress shirt.
“You know I hated Let’sRun until Gault took over, but those brothers did know one thing: Talent doesn’t go away,” Salazar says. “You three are the only ones that have the talent, the motivation, the drive. It has to be you. And I have to be the one to coach you.”
There’s a moment of near silence. The only sound the whirr of the tires and the occasional swish-swish of the windshield wipers from up front. All three men have the same thought, but no one wants to voice it. Finally, Galen speaks.
“But Al, you… you can’t coach us. We all know this. You can’t coach anyone. Not after…”
“Did I say coach?!” Salazar interrupts his star pupil. “Damnit. How could I mis-speak like that. What I meant to say is… counsel. I want to be your new therapist.”
“Therapist?” Biwott says, puzzled.
“Right,” Salazar explains. “Yes, of course, I’m banned for life from coaching after the whole 2024 debacle. But you all know me. Have I ever let the rules ever get in the way of my doing exactly as I please?”
There’s a long pause as if he’s actually waiting for an answer.
“No,” Galen obliges him.
“Thank you, Galen,” he continues. “I wasn’t going to let something as silly as injecting Siberian-tiger’s-adrenal-fluid into my 14-year-old nephew keep me away from this great sport. So, I sat down and I thought. And then I saw it, like I always do, my loophole. Doctor-patient confidentiality. It’s ironclad. So I spent the last three years in the peace and quiet of my own home as a student at University of Phoenix becoming a licensed therapist.”
“Look, we all have problems. But, and no offense, Al, I’m not really sure those are the types of problems that you should be dealing with.” Galen says.
“Galen, gentlemen. You may not know, but you all suffer from a very specific diagnosable and treatable disorder, which disorder I myself submitted to the DSM-XII: Post-Simulation Exposure Distortion Disorder. And while I might not be able to coach you, I can meet with you, as often as you want, and whatever we talk about in our treatment of this debilitating diagnosis is protected by doctor-patient-confidentiality -- whether that’s the emotional whirlwind in your head or… how many 400s you should do tomorrow, and at what pace. I can’t be out there at the track w/ a stop-watch as your coach, but there’s no reason your average therapist can’t stop by a public facility to watch one of his clients work on his mental and physical growth.”
“I told you he’s a genius,” Biwott whispers to Withrow.
“Okay, ‘Doctor’ Salazar,” Withrow says sarcastically. “So, how much are you going to charge us for your ‘services.’”
“Not a cent. This isn’t for me, gentlemen. This is for all of us. The Gouchers cannot have this. They have taken too much from me, from all of us, not just in this room, but in the whole running world!” The sweat begins to glisten on his now beet-red forehead; Galen looks nervous. “We’re going to show them, to teach them a lesson. We are going to prove to the world that what was true in 2012, hell, in 2003, is still true today.”
Galen: “This all sounds great, but even if we all get fit, how on earth are we going to get this kid to agree to race us? A bunch of washed-up old men? And on what stage?”
Salazar’s eyes gleam. His lips curl upward into the smile that Galen hasn’t seen in close to a decade.
“You think I’d call you all here without having thought of everything?” The car is stopped at a light, the only sound the pitter-patter of light rain on the roof. “Gentlemen, the Footlocker High School National Championships isn’t what it was in 2003.”
All three quietly snicker at the name they haven’t thought of in years.
“Once Nike started with prize money and guaranteed Oregon scholarships at NXN, I thought Footlocker would finally throw in the towel,” Biwott says.
“Not to mention the meet-n-greet w/ the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders,” Withrow adds, elbowing the two men on either side.
“Yes, when Centro came on as Nike president, the incentives he threw at NXN were impossible for Footlocker to match,” Salazar begins. “But it’s not dead yet. While it may not have the luster it used to, its decline plays right in to our hands. They’ve… let’s say… loosened up the entry procedure.”
Salazar picks up a glass, ice cubes clinking. He wipes the condensation on his black Oiselle sweatpants.
“We’re going to enroll the three of you in an online GED program,” Salazar continues. “You pass 6 months of Freshman English -- and, Galen, even you can handle that -- and you’re officially a high schooler in the eyes of Footlocker. Just a few years older than Futsum and Ches.”
Galen looks at his feet sheepishly while Withrow lets out a low whistle.
“And, but, Colt… he’s the greatest high school runner in the country. He wouldn’t be caught dead at a meet like that,” Kiptoo says. “How can we possibly get him to show up?”
“Let’s just say… a little birdie me that the Goucher household hasn’t taken the results of the simulation very well. At all.” Salazar replies. “Young Colt and his Mama Bear are fuming that anyone would question his GOAT status. They are hungry for a chance to prove the simulation wrong. If we chum the waters, if they get the scent of blood in their nostrils, they’ll be unable to resist.”
Withrow seems fed up. “But what about us? You’re going to try to train us--I mean counsel us--to beat this kid and we all know you’re good, the best really, but we also all know the days of microdosing and tiger-adrenaline ended after all the 2024 Olympic busts. How on earth do you think you can get us three sad sops to the starting line, let alone get us to the finish line first?”
“Gentlemen,” Salazar says, taking a long pull from his glass. “You just leave that to me.”
1000 miles to the east, Colt Goucher floats along the soft wood-chipped trail at Goucher ranch. His stride’s effortless fluidity is juxtaposed against his father’s labored lumber. Adam is a shell of the beast who won that XC title so long ago. He breathes heavily, his face flushed, as the pace inches down below six minutes.
Does he know about the vial? Colt wonders to himself. He hadn’t paid a visit to the cabin in weeks, maybe even months; is it possible his parents stumbled across it? No. Impossible. It was right where he’d left it, hidden in plain sight.
Father and son snake their way back towards the house without speaking. Colt runs like a puppy straining at the leash.
“That’s enough, Colt,” Adam says sternly. “Let’s jog it in. Save it for the meet this weekend. You know, I heard President Symmonds will be there. Secret Service has been scoping out the Bowerman Run Gum Tower.”
Colt remains silent, distracted, still thinking about the vial. He’d told himself never again. But now, well, he’d have to wait and see.