The original intention of the meeting was to let the doctors and the press examine the seventy-some participants who would be running tomorrow’s race. But what can a doctor know about a marathon man that the athlete doesn’t already know about himself? What can a heart specialist say about a thirty-five-year-old phys ed fanatic with a 35-beats-per-minute heartbeat and heels calloused thick as hardballs?
So the physical examination was waived and worried warnings submitted in its place. Of greatest concern was the water.
“Do not suck the sponges. Drinks from race organizers will be on white tables. Private drinks on red tables. Take when you want. Private drinks must be handed in tonight for analysis.”
Chuck Hattersly leaned over to whisper, “I get it! They’re trying to steal our formula for Gatorade.”
“Please don’t injure yourself with strain. Take it easy. However, to avoid delaying the traffic and spectators, there will be cut-off points for the slow—”
The shuffling murmur of the room stilled. Cut-off points? No one had ever heard of cut-off points in a marathon. As long as you could put one foot in front of the other, you could run.
“Those who have not reached 25 kilometers by the time of 1:40 will be removed from the race.”
Sitting amidst 60 other Chinese runners, Yang felt knots start in his stomach. He had no idea of his time for 25 kilometers. No notion, even, how
“If you have not reached the 35-kilometer point by 2:20 you will be removed.”
For a moment Yang was cramped with panic. He remembered the cheering crowd at the cemetery. If he were removed he could never return home; better not to start than not to finish! Then it occurred to him that all he had to do was expend his total force to reach that 35-km mark in 2:20; he could
“We also suggest if you begin to feel uncomfortable that you volunteer to drop out.”
“Uncomfortable?” a gnarly veteran from New Zealand muttered. “Take it easy? The bleeding hell does he think we
“One important thing further. The water in the sponges is for wiping the face. Do not drink it. There will be plenty of drink at the tables. Our deepest suggestion is that you ingest no water from the sponges. Now. I wish you all once again good luck. And look forward to seeing you this evening for the banquet at the Great Hall. Thank you for your attention.”
It had been a peculiar event, lengthy and uncomfortable. And if its thrust and purpose had been somewhat vague, to say the least, no one wanted to prolong it by asking questions. As the runners were queueing up for their buses, the writer, notebook and pen in hand, corraled Chuck Hattersly and inquired reporter-fashion what in his opinion was the upshot, the
“Don’t,” was Hattersly’s immediate summary, “suck the sponges.”
After lunch there awaited, according to Mr. Mude, a plethora of palace and pagodas all deemed mandatory for a first-time visitor to Beijing. The journalists wanted to know if they might go instead to the compound assigned to the Chinese runners. Mude said this afternoon was prescribed rest for the Chinese entries. Then they asked to see Democracy Wall. Mude explained that Democracy Wall no longer existed. Quill-headed free-lunched Bee Wing Bling, feeling looser by the minute among his second-countrymen, explained that the
“If one has comment, one can write the government bureaus direct.”
“Right,” Bling agreed. “It’s better to cause confusion among the bureaucrats. They’re trained.”
“Ah.” Mude swiveled his smile back to the journalists. “Perhaps you will like to stop at the Friendship Store before continuing to Forbidden City? They have Coca-Cola.”
The journalists would have preferred to scout off on their own but since they were stroking Mude to try to get permission to follow tomorrow’s race in a taxi, instead of sitting on their thumbs for two hours at the start/finish with the rest of the press, they had decided to try and keep on his good side.
And if he did not have a good one, to at least stay off his bad.
