I drink technicolor wine

This is unedited, I wrote it in one sitting. So, of course, it is not complete.

Out here on the undulating seven mile return trip that unwelcome presence wasn't marked by a void in his chest, it was completely unmissed. That void was perpetually filled with a gravity of the asphalt miles still in need of his ownership. Today his reverie revolved around two things: bumping into Brooke yesterday and the translucent ever-present love/hate obsession with water.

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"I think... I'm going... to die..."

James looked up. Visibly pulled from the same faraway place every runner existed to channel their discomfort.

“…if I don’t get water” Caleb finished on the exhale, sweat beading down his heaving torso.

“We went out too fast. Kyle said we should pick it up every once in awhile…” checking his watch “but yea… too fast”.

“Blah”

Today was hot and dangerously humid and despite heading out the door not long after seven, Levington’s summer sun would beat into submission even those ever cautious of I’s oppressiveness. The early soaked shorts and sweat flinging off their arms was the only visible sign of heir distress.

Unspoken between the two was that each mile would continue to lost time at the exact increments they always did on these Saturday progression runs. A mistake made was a mistake unapologized for and owned. Whether a reluctance to admit actual error or psychosis involved in conquering every perceived challenge they slipped back within the folds of their constructed refuges and carried on.

Simultaneously glancing at the watches and each other, Jake let out a weary sigh as the pace dropped down another eight seconds. Jake was well beyond discomfort. Looking at an unphased Caleb, he almost thought his earlier admission of hurting was imagined. The constant burn that was his legs would have become an all-consuming but blindingly sharp numbness except for the acute awareness this whole breathing thing was being replaced by labored gasps. A touch of despair began to take hold as he was no longer running as smoothly as Caleb. Jake’s base had been bigger.

He was hurting… how? How is he doing that? I can’t… I can’t…

With a visceral thrust Jake pushed himself forward to keep pace and found it manageable but it was definitely killing him faster.

Pushing into the last mile Jake hurtled along in greater despair. Flicking a sweaty watch with slick hands, he looked yet again at his silent companion… And there, it was. Somewhat startled he thought, He’s really fucking hurting isn’t he. Caleb’s face was flushed, a hand was shaken out but it was his eyes that gave him away. Like a man who had lost everything in a bet, his eyes were half cast and locked on a vacant spot ten meters ahead. Jake knew some basic part of Caleb was only dimly aware of the trail anymore, he’d been there before. Caleb’s eyes were looking at that ashen pit of painful despair that exists in pushing too far for too long. They both understood their little ‘miscalculation’ turned a difficult workout into something potentially undoable. But a conjoining thread between them was they’d rather break from effort than admit defeat.

All this while Jake became aware that Caleb’s breath was rasping and probably had been for several miles. As Jake was struggling to keep sane, Caleb had been thrashing frantically inside his skull as their legs carried them through several miles of prideful hell. The taller heavier runner was usually more stressed by longer runs, today was no exception. Caleb staggered a step before righting himself , drawing even again with Jake.

They fed on the other’s pain.

Coming into the last quarter mile they did nothing but what they had been, only made harder and easier at their intimate knowledge with the closeness of the end of the workout, and to them, sweet release. Caleb had put down his head and clenched his jaw as the last street was turned onto and the stop sign marking the cessation became visible. Approaching the end was externally anticlimactic as they held onto their mental state that made all this possible. Caleb’s reverie, his barely held form turned to putty as they passed the sign.

Fast efficient strides, minced steps, desperate rasps, long slow breathes, the transition was painfully sweet. The slowed pace was welcome as they survived through the last miles home. These were the slowest two miles run all week but still this recovery was exhausting in how far removed it was from lying down in the grass with all the water one could ever drink…