In Photo (l-r) The Red Haired Legend (Rick Platt), Number Two (Stephen Chantry), the Author (Jim Bates), and the Young, Fast Runner (Steve Menzies)

Hey listen, don't tell anyone, but for the last few months I've been in a deep blue funk. My mojo is spent. These are truly the dark, dismal, desolate days of winter. My spirit pained, my left knee strained, I can barely run ten minutes a day, before I averaged 70. This sucks!

If I take a logical approach, I know what happened. I entered the Richmond Marathon with an injury and changed my stride as the race progressed in response to the hills of the city. As a result, my knee overtaxed its ligaments, meniscus, tendons, and cartilage--all that stuff that isn't muscle or bone. Friends readily accept this explanation. But I know what really happened: The god of running struck me with a long overdue comeuppance!

Let me explain. During Little League, I learned it's not wise to razz the other guy. It only made him play harder; plus, he'd start razzing me right back. As I matured (actually I just got older), I usually restrained from gloating and busting the chops of an opponent. Oh! Don't get me wrong. I found nothing more gratifying than bursting a boastful man's bubble. I lived for it. But after the release of all that hot air, I'd walk away to savor the pleasure alone.

But, with a certain rival it was different. When I initially met him some four years ago at a 5K awards ceremony--I was first, he third in our age group--I was struck by his optimism, enthusiasm, and passion for running. I wondered: How can a guy with only modest ability have so much confidence? I mean, I had trounced him by more than two minutes. Yet, there was something about his style: his personae, which brought out the playful devil in me. As we walked back from picking up our awards-- coffee cups, mine was 14 ounces and his only six--I said to him, "God, I don't know how I'll be able to drink all the coffee that can fit in my first place cup." Then as I spied his third place award, "Gee, I sure hope you like espresso."

He genuinely laughed at my mild put down, which set the tone for the years to follow. I knew he could take it: the jocular abuse, the kind that a seasoned pro would dish out to a promising, likeable rookie. In fact he welcomed this, it energized his spirit. So over the next few years I'd make nuanced, subtle probes into the inner sanctum of his mind--that portion where a person's human dignity and pride resides. Time passed by, he got faster, but he never could quite catch up with where he felt he should have been. And in all modesty, when I was around he never finished first. I would offer encouragement, but it was always presupposed on the assumption that the basic order of our running universe would not change. Plus I'd always add my needling jabs--just because I could. "Great race," I'd tell him in patronizing fashion. "No women beat you, wow! Of course, a little girl did (Aurora Scott, a national class 12-year old), but hey, at least no women did." Then I let him know that my smug humor, which I thoroughly enjoyed, was actually offered on his behalf. "I say these things for you," I'd tell him, "To keep you humble, hungry, and focused. Some day you'll thank me for it."

Race after race after race, he was always surprised by how close he was to the guy who finished right before him. "If I had only known," he'd say, "I would've picked up the pace at the end and beat him."

"Oh sure", I'd respond, "There is no doubt about it. If you had known how close you were, you would have been able to speed up and beat him, plus with all your momentum, you would have passed at least two of the guys even farther ahead. Heck, you might have been able to place overall." He'd outwardly laugh at my embellishment, but inside I think he actually agreed with it.

Through the spring, summer, fall, and winter of one year and onto the next, and the next, and the next, he'd finish second, always second, behind me. This happened so much so, I started calling him Number Two. I'd offer praise like this, "Not a bad finish Number Two, you sure are getting faster." After a particularly strong second place finish he declared, "One of these days, Jim, you're going to be surprised."

"Listen," I told him. "You might as well accept the facts of life. You are not going to be President of the United States. You will not have an affair with Angelina Jolie. And you are not going to be able to beat . . . Ooops! Never mind! We don't need to go there, Number Two. Oh! That reminds me! I have to go to the bathroom--big time."

He kept getting better but could never meet his unrealistic goals. During a three-hour road trip to DC to run the Sallie Mae 10K, Number Two's overly optimistic banter completely consumed the sport utility vehicle that four of us runners were riding in. The first three miles of the race itself transpired just as Number Two had optimistically imagined. He was actually challenging the Young, Fast runner of our group and, for the first time ever, he was ahead of me at the halfway mark (perhaps by a minute) and even farther ahead of our fourth member, the Red-Haired Legend who never gave Number Two the respect he so deeply craved. Although I had hoped to hang on to my undefeated streak for another full year, I began to realize that Number Two was about to become Number One. I started to relax, realizing this race was a lost cause.

But then something happened to right the universe. Smelling my weakness, the Red-Haired Legend snuck by me in the far outside lane, trying to hide aside some Clydesdale-looking dude along the way. I instantly woke up. Getting beat by Number Two was one thing, getting beat by the Red-Haired Legend was another. From past experience I knew that there is nothing worse in life than having the details of one of my poor performances rehashed over and over again via the Red-Haired Legend's mind-numbing perseveration . . . perseveration . . . perseveration.

Enraged because so much was at stake, I sped up. Then Red-Haired Legend sped up. Then we both sped up. Sure enough, after a mile, we had Number Two dead in our sights. When he saw us he took off like a dreamy cat suddenly startled by two, large, teeth-bared, menacing canines. He must have run a sub 12-second, 100-meter dash. But when his dash was done, so was he. After the race was over, Number Two, who had aspired to become Number One, wound up being number four.

During the cool down run, I noticed that, for the first time ever, his optimistic, confident glow wasn't shining so bright. I made a mental note--I almost had to write it down on my hand--to be understanding and nice. But this lasted all of thirty seconds. In less time than it takes to rip open a gob of Gu, he was his normal, totally confident, sunshiny self again. And to me, this meant that his psyche was fair game. "I never saw such sheer, unadulterated panic during a race before, have you?" I asked the Red-Haired Legend as the four of us ran side by side during the cool down. "Hey, let's make sure Number Two stays in the middle. I don't want him jumping off one of these dang bridges. From here on in, the three of us are on suicide watch. Whatever you do, DON'T LET HIM SMASH HIS HEAD AGAINST THAT STONE WALL." We all had a good laugh, or at least three of us did. Later, Number Two chidingly asked me, how could I be so arrogant, so obnoxious? "Just lucky I guess," I replied. "It flows naturally through me; must be a gift from God."

In no way whatsoever discouraged, Number Two continued his relentless pursuit toward improving. After a solid race, he would gloat out loud that he would now surely rise in "The Standings." Like a teenager anxiously anticipating the next Harry Potter novel, he eagerly awaited the arrival of each and every Washington Running Report, especially the issues containing the age-group rankings. After I read one issue, given to me hot-off-the-press by the Red-Haired Legend--the most knowledgeable runner on the Williamsburg Peninsula or any other Peninsula--I called Number Two to let him know that he was not only listed in the top ten of our age-group, he was mentioned by name in the text. Excited, he went home, rounded up his copy and his family, and read out loud the part where, indeed, his name was prominently displayed. The gist of the article simply extolled my strong age-group performances, pointing out how I had soundly beaten Number Two in five consecutive races. He called me later to "thank" me for letting him know about his "write up" and said his family got a big kick out of his sharing the results with them.

The taste of success, even if it was only a sip, encouraged him even more. It was at Shamrock (where I ran the marathon and he the 8K) that I began to realize that the gig was soon to be up; the student would soon become the master. He had won his age group in a romp with a National Class performance. "You know, Number Two, I just hope that when you become Number One you will be as magnanimous to me as I have been to you," I told him with a smile. "By the way, I think it's great you are not disappointed that a 50 year-old woman beat you. I mean--this would embarrass most other guys but not you. I admire you for that." I neglected to add that this gal had just set a new age- group world record.

He then started beating me routinely, in half-marathons, 10Ks, 8Ks, 5Ks, any kind of Ks. Oh! I'd hear about it too. "Show me the magnanimity," I'd cry out. But for some reason, it never came. "You really didn't think you'd be able to out kick me, did you?" he said after one race where he had surged by me in the last 100 meters of a 5K, beating me by four seconds in the final sprint. In the weeks leading up to the revised Elizabeth River Run, where results would be compiled based on age-adjusted performance, Number Two, now Number One, would regularly e-mail the three of us. But he would only engage Young, Fast Runner, and the Red-Haired Legend, asking only them about their planned strategy and pre-race training. It was almost as if I weren't there, like I was some kind of senile, tottering old coot, incapable of understanding the discussion going on all around me. To me, this was the ultimate put down: not even being considered a factor.

So I sit here, the leg gimpy, the good days gone, not running but writing, awaiting an appointment with an orthopod. Still, I reflect upon the years past, what a great run I had. When I try to feel sorry for myself, I just can't. After all, in a way, I was the one who ordered the humble pie I'm now consuming--or, should I say, is consuming me.

In photo below, Number Two serving the author a large slice of humble pie.

The author would like to thank the husband of Mrs. Steve Chantry for his good humor and running fellowship.