The thrill and agony of sports is the way Wide World of Sports opened its weekly show years ago. I felt that way running the NYC Marathon one year. It was a combo of thrill and agony. If you want to feel sick, try running 26.2 miles!
I ran the New York City Marathon because I got particularly obsessed with a podcast called Running For Their Lives, or RFTL, about a mysterious murder in a popular running group.
THE PLOT: One of the group’s most popular (and fastest) members, Speed (yes, a nickname), had gone missing and eventually turned up dead in the woods near a running path. It was sickening. But I was also guilty of being curious, and then I became obsessed.
Who? Why? Was it his ex? His current? Or was it a random act? Wrong place. Wrong time.
I listened to the RFTL countless times, so much so that I could recite it by heart. I even listened to podcasts about RFTL. I consumed elaborate theories on Reddit posts. It was never-ending.
I wasn’t alone in my obsession. Thousands, perhaps millions, were out there just like me. I started running because I wanted to feel closer to RFTL and live in Speed’s headspace.
And, yes, I wanted to solve this horrific crime. However, I told my family and friends that I took up running because I was in “gore detox.” Indeed, they’d become concerned. And, no, sadly, that was not a typo. After my true crime binge began, I was down to a single friend, and she probably only stuck around because I lent her my car.
Shoeless Speed in NYC
Speed, who always ran barefoot, ran the New York City Marathon every year, so I entered the lottery. I figured I’d get turned away and that would be that. But it wasn’t.
As I ran, albeit slowly, I played RFTL in my mind, and I imagined myself running with Speed and his cohorts: Chase, Rabbit, Quick, Sprint, and Achilles, among others. They all had fun nicknames. No surprise, they all involved running. Quick, Sprint, and Achilles seemed to have rock-solid alibis. Seemed is the keyword.
Chase, one of Speed’s exes, however, couldn’t verify her whereabouts. She claimed that she was running alone in the hills, which I found credible. I couldn’t fathom that she would do something like that. Chase was devastated. However, she told her fellow runners not to mention to the police that they had dated. What was she hiding?
Rabbit said he couldn’t recall what he was doing. He was very well spoken. Had he been rehearsing?
I became consumed with the truth, but it was elusive. DNA tests were inconclusive. Time stamps could not be verified. Cell phone data seemed unreliable. Lawyers were a distraction. Judges seemed more interested in hearing themselves. Did anyone want justice besides me?
When I had had enough of alibis, I conversed with Speed as I ran, well, jiggled. “You’re not bad for a novice,” he commented. “It’s good to see you getting in shape.” “I’m not doing this for my health. I’m doing this for you,” I explained. “Who did this to you? Why won’t you tell me?” “If I tell you, you’ll stop running. My getting killed was the best thing that ever happened to you. What else would you do with your time?”
Good question. We always had a version of this same conversation. We were very different people. Speed was an extrovert and loved running barefoot. I spent too much time alone in the dark in front of my keyboard, wondering who murdered him.
Surprise: I won the lottery and got a marathon race number. The problem: I’d stopped hardcore training. I’d never run more than a half. I wasn’t prepared, and I didn’t want to run the marathon, but Speed told me I had to. “I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t. I’d kill to run.”
Race day was gorgeous. I took it nice and slow, a half step in front of the other. I made it out of Staten Island just fine. Brooklyn and Queens went OK, too. “Look at all these people cheering us on,” remarked Speed as we made our way. “Does life get any better than this?”
He was correct.
But when I stepped into Manhattan just past the halfway point, at about mile 15, I started to stiffen and feel sick. I got some water and visited one of the horrible porta-potties, where Speed visited me.
“What are you doing?” he scolded. “This is the greatest run in the world, and you’re slacking.”
Ever so gingerly, I started to run again, but after maybe a mile or so, unbearable pain shot up through every inch of my body. It was relentless. I closed my eyes. It seemed to shut out the pain, but only for a moment. I gritted it out and kept going. If I did, maybe Speed would tell me what happened.
Speed churns ahead
“No pain, no gain.” Speed needled with a grin. He wasn’t just a voice now. He was running next to me, barefoot, in the flesh.
“What happened to you?” I begged. “What happened to you?” Speed mimicked me. “Why won’t you just tell me?” “I told you before. If I tell you, you’ll stop running.” “I promise to keep running.” “If you find out, you’ll get another distraction, and I’ll be forgotten. You’ll be killing me all over again. Do you want to kill me?”
“I don’t want to kill you!” I shouted, my eyes widening. “I don’t want to kill you! I want justice!” “Do you?” asked Speed, rolling his eyes. “I want justice!” I shouted again, attempting to raise my hands for emphasis.
But I couldn’t. I was strapped to a bed. “I don’t want to kill you!” I screamed at the team of white coats that surrounded me, each with a keypad. “I’ll never stop running; just tell me what happened to you!”
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available, illustrated by Coverkitchen.
