Chapter 6 Mile Six #3
“Okay, well you don’t turn thirty-one until October fifteenth, so you’ll have time to run a different marathon. It doesn’t have to be New York.”
“But it does need to be the year I turn thirty. That year ends in two months. It’s not happening. It’s over. Even before it started.”
“It’s not over. The race. Sonora. Your turning thirty bucket list. They’re not gone. You just have to wait or find a new way.” I sit on the edge of the gurney and take his hand.
My words almost mirror the ones he had given me on my sixteenth birthday.
While classmates celebrated getting driver’s licenses, allowing them greater freedom, I faced the realization that I wouldn’t experience that milestone.
I wasn’t blind—pun intended—to the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to drive.
Still, turning sixteen made it real. It just reinforced the ways I wasn’t like the rest of my classmates.
I would have been fine wallowing, but Anker didn’t let me. Instead, he drove us three hours to spend my birthday at Knotts Berry Farm, specifically to do the bumper cars.
“Anytime you want to drive, I’ll always ride shotgun,” he’d said as we climbed out of one of the bumper cars. Laughter vibrated through us, and our legs wobbled after being crammed into those tiny cars.
“Thanks,” I sniffled, wiping away grateful, happy tears from the edges of my eyes.
Not only does Anker always keep that promise, but most days he opted to walk to school with me, or take the bus, instead of driving us.
Well, unless it was raining. The thick, sometimes frizzy, hair we inherited from our mother makes the rain our mortal enemy.
Still, I know Anker did it so I didn’t feel alone walking the path I’d been placed on.
“Next year is the year I turn thirty,” I say, my eyes wide.
“What?” He says, his face likely pinched with confusion.
I squeeze his hand. “The Seal Beach marathon happens right after I turn thirty and exactly one week before you turn thirty-one. If we run it together, maybe whatever Larsen lore magic comes with running a marathon the year you turn thirty will transfer from me to you.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I’m not the expert on mythical family folklore,” I scoff.
“Yet you’re suggesting this,” Garrett drawls.
“You’re not helping.” I toss him an annoyed expression over my shoulder.
“You also don’t believe in the Larsen lore,” Anker says.
“That doesn’t matter. What does is that you do.” I look at him. “Plus, Mr. Scientific Method, wouldn’t running the race together the year I turn thirty test your theory that it both exists and isn’t exclusive to those with Y chromosomes in the Larsen gene pool?”
“That actually makes sense,” Garrett adds, causing me to shift to face him.
“Did it hurt to say that out loud?”
“I may never recover.” The upward tug of his lips is evident in his tenor.
“Good thing we’re in a hospital.” I smirk.
“You would run a marathon with me?” Anker says, disbelief punctuates his words.
“I would do anything for you.” I meet his eyes, which are the same shade of hazel as mine.
In so many ways, my brother is the complete opposite of me.
He’s tall and lean compared to my shorter, plumper figure.
He’s the brightness that lights up every room, while I tend to stay tucked up against the wall.
Still, we’re both Larsens. We come from a family of helpers.
It’s why he’s a doctor, and I got my master’s in social work.
Above all, he’s one of my favorite people, and I would do anything to help him. Even run a marathon.
“Jensen, I love you, but you’re not exactly the easiest person to guide run with. We didn’t even make it a mile into that 5K.” He points at me.
He’s not wrong. Guide running involves a lot of trust. Something I tend to struggle with.
Human guide isn’t my favorite. There’s always a charge along my nerve endings that I’ll get hurt, left behind, or worse, that I’ll hurt someone else.
My cane gives me the control to ensure my own safety.
Only running with a cane isn’t safe or practical.
I heave a breath. “Well, I’ll have six months or so to mentally prepare for that while you’re recovering.”
“Because that’s realistic.”
“Have faith.”
“Says the woman whose idea of a marathon is binging Masterpiece Theater melodramas.” He shifts on the gurney. “Jensen, you don’t just wake up and run a marathon.”
“I know.” I purse my lips. “I’ll look up some programs and hit the treadmill in my building.”
“It’s so much more than that. Diet. Conditioning. Simulating the race day experience. This isn’t the twenty minutes you do on the elliptical a few times a week. Not to mention the work needed to get you comfortable with being guided for 26.2 miles.”
26.2 miles? I’m aware that marathons are long, but this puts it in perspective. I don’t even think Seal Beach is 26.2 miles in length. How the hell does it have a marathon?
“I appreciate you offering, but I don’t… Unless…” He looks between Garrett and me. “You train her.”
“Excuse me!” I choke out.
“You need to mentally and physically train for this. Garrett is perfect. Not only does he run marathons, but if you can trust him enough to be your guide runner, then there’s hope that this race won’t end with your knee skinned and us walking off the course like last time.”
“I… We can’t… This is a terrible idea.” I gesture wildly.
All the reasons stack up. We’ll argue. I’ll keep crushing on him, even though he’s inappropriate, because of my faulty heart.
“Plus, Garrett is busy and—"
“I’ll do it,” Garrett says.