PUBLISHED 05/30/2006
The Hansen dam run started as the sun lifted over the San Gabriels to the east, warming the arroyo beyond the dam and loosing the aroma of mesquite. The course consisted of two nine-mile loops traversing the rolling hills around the high-desert flood-control project; it was a more rugged and less friendly course than the Irvine Half-Marathon. Still, with the sun and the view, the run seemed manageable.
Only one cloud darkened Mendoza's horizon: Brittany didn't seem herself.
As he settled to the trail, Mendoza tried to puzzle out what had happened to her. In recent weeks teachers had complained about her disrupting class, and she had started missing SRLA practices. Sweet, electric Brittany, a natural leader, who had the potential to become a very good runner; who had the potential to be good at just about anything.
Sometimes Mendoza wished he didn't have to learn so much about his runners. But he was out on the road with them four times a week, seven months a year, charting their progress in a dozen categories, and didn't have much choice.
Brittany's father was in prison. Her mother was raising her alone. She was a smart, sensitive kid. Recently she'd gotten one of the lead roles in the school play. Maybe she was feeling too much pressure, Mendoza speculated. After all, she was only a ninth-grader.
Mendoza worked patiently around the reservoir. Nearing the end of the loop, he decided to run just nine miles this morning. He would save his fragile knees for the marathon, now less than a month away. He finished his loop and walked for a while. He got a bagel and a banana, collected his T-shirt, and then moved to the finish-line area with his video camera to wait for his team. This was one of his favorite moments--the kids coming in one by one. He liked to greet them, make a fuss, take their photo or catch them on video. It was very important to record and honor the achievement of each runner. As usual, Esteban and Pedro were the first to finish. Junior Silva came in about a half hour later, followed by an exhausted Julian, who finished in 3:05. They settled down with Mendoza for a long wait; the slower members of the team wouldn't finish for several more hours. A few were still running or walking their first lap.
"I started too fast," said Julian, who had missed his target time by almost 30 minutes. But he offered no excuses, despite the course's difficulty and the fact that he'd been up most of last night. "I went out with Max and Junior and felt fine during the first lap. I saw the finish line here and all the people and food and music, and I realized I had to do it all over again. I had another nine miles to go."
Then, from the direction opposite the finish line, Brittany appeared, licking an ice-cream cone. Her T-shirt was dry, so she'd obviously been hanging around for a while. She would not meet Mendoza's eye.
"Brittany," he said, "it looks like you only ran one lap."
The girl didn't say anything.
"You need to run that second lap."
"Mendoza, my stomach hurt." She lowered her voice. "I had to go to the bathroom."
Mendoza was quiet for a moment, watching her work at the ice-cream cone. "Brittany," he said, "you need to run 18 miles, or you're not going to be able to run the marathon."
"I told you, my stomach hurt!"
"Okay, but tomorrow at practice you're running 18 miles. That's 72 times around the track."
Brittany's eyes flared. She stomped away and sat alone under a tree. Mendoza picked up his video camera and turned back to the finish line. A few minutes later Darlene came in, at the end of her first lap. She was walking, and her face was red, but after taking an orange slice and some water and smiling for the camera, she sailed right into her second lap. A few steps past the line, Brittany quietly fell in beside her. Mendoza didn't say anything. Together, the two girls completed the final nine miles, earning entry to the marathon.
