"Robert Reed - X-Country" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

approach, he pointed out, тАЬYouтАЩve got a hitch in your giddy-up.тАЭ And when he
heard my plight, he didnтАЩt wince or even touch his own hip. He was immune to my
pain, nodding while assuring me, тАЬIt could be worse news, of course.тАЭ

тАЬWorse how?тАЭ I asked.

But that was too obvious to say. Putting on his pretty-boy smile, Kip said,
тАЬBut then again, who knows what the future holds?тАЭ

****

I had already entered KipтАЩs race. But as a rule, I hate standing by, watching
runners in action. IтАЩve always been a creature of motion; at least thatтАЩs what my
personal mythology claims. And several times, Kip assured me that he didnтАЩt need
help. HeтАЩd already laid out his course through the forested bluffs, painting the trails
with orange arrows and setting up stations at four key points. Runners would search
for coolers of water and buckets full of numbered Popsicle sticks. Four sticks had
to be retrieved, brought back in order to prove that the full route had been
conquered. Everyone would carry a map, and since heтАЩd closed off entries at five
hundred, he still had plenty of time left to make race bibs and see to any other
last-minute details.

тАЬSo you donтАЩt want my help?тАЭ I asked.

The smile was bright and imbecilic. Quietly, he conceded, тАЬI donтАЩt need it.
But I suppose you could pull race tags, if too many bodies come in too fast.тАЭ

I woke up that morning believing that IтАЩd find something else to do. But after
coffee, I was driving north, eventually passing through a tiny river-bottom hamlet
where an old brick high school stood empty. A handmade sign had been set up three
miles past Enderville. тАЬHill-Hell Run,тАЭ it said, pointing me toward the bluffs. Cars
were parked up and down a country road. I had to turn around and take one of the
last slots. Limping, I slowly covered a quarter-mile of loose gravel, ending up where
an abandoned farmstead stood in a bowl-shaped valley, surrounded on three sides
by steep limestone hills and mature forest. By then, the runners had gathered behind
a long white line, faces stared at a wall of oaks and ash trees that were turning color
after the first cold nights of the season. Every other hand was holding a slip of gold
paperтАФthe promised maps. тАЬGood luck to you,тАЭ Kip shouted. Then he clapped two
boards together, and the youngest runners threw themselves into a desperate sprint,
fighting to be first into the towering woods.

When five hundred runners vanish, the silence can be unnerving.

I limped my way over to my friend. He offered me a little wink and one of two
folding chairs waiting next to a large digital clock and a second, much shorter strip
of white paint.

тАЬThe finish line?тАЭ I asked.

He nodded, adding, тАЬThe finishers come in from there.тАЭ He was pointing in