The Extra Mile

We run. Our feet strike the asphalt, echoing in the empty street: slap-thud-slap-thud. Our breath is heavy, inhale, exhale. Sweat streams down our backs. We run.

We approach the small alley, its entrance hidden between two tall apartment buildings, leading to a narrow lane between two rows of detached houses.

I turn my head to Nathan; he runs steadily beside me. I give a small nod, as if to ask, “Ready?” We don’t need many words now, not after years of running together. He nods back with a smile, a silent “let’s go!” and we dive into the alley.

Almost as soon as our first steps hit the road, we hear it. Loud barks, distant at first but gaining ground fast. Then comes the sound of paws – fast, rhythmic, harsh. And then we see him – the big black dog emerges from the small gate and accelerates toward us, barking furiously and baring sharp, white teeth.

Our hearts hammer. Our legs feel as though they might set the road on fire as we push the pace. Breathing becomes short and functional, just enough oxygen to feed the burn in our muscles.

The dog is right behind us, closing the gap until we can almost feel his hot breath on the nape of our necks.

The end of the lane is close, a few more rushing steps, and we’re out. We know the dog will stop the moment we leave his territory. And he does. He skids to a halt right on the invisible border between the lane and the main street. He barks a few more times, a final warning: this time you made it; next time you might not be that lucky. Then he turns and trots back to his post.

We keep running for a few steps, slowing until we reach a halt. We stand there, breathing heavily but smiling. We have done this run hundreds of times. I give Nathan a quick pat on the shoulder. He wipes the sweat from his face with his shirt.

“Alex,” he says quietly, “that was my last run.”

***

Nathan and I had been running together regularly for years, though we hadn’t exactly started as friends. We were mutual acquaintances first – faces in the crowd, people who knew of each other through the blurred periphery of social circles and late-night events. I believe I was the first one who brought it up. During some forgettable small talk, I mentioned I was trying to run to improve my fitness, and he mentioned he was thinking of doing the same but never managed to find the energy to do it. We agreed to try running together, thinking maybe the power of two would encourage each of us to keep at it.

What started as an experiment quickly became a ritual. You see, it’s important to choose your running partner carefully. It’s not just someone who match your pace, but someone who can share your silence. The miles have a way of stripping away the need for social performance. In the beginning we talked to fill the air, but as the miles accumulated, the conversation thinned out. Eventually we reached a kind of synchronization where we didn’t need to speak at all. We were simply a single machine, tuned to the same rhythm of breath and asphalt.

Usually, I set the route. Maybe because I knew the city better. I always tried to change it now and then, so we wouldn’t get bored.

The dog came later. A few years ago, when I changed the route again, I decided to end it in that alley. I’d never been there before, but on the map the alley was exactly the distance I needed to complete the route.

When we first entered, we heard the barks first, but neither of us had paid any attention to them; there are a lot of dogs barking in the city. But soon enough this mighty black creature emerged from the gate and started running with his sharp teeth bared, as if he were hunting us. A look of horror was all over Nathan’s face, and I guess mine as well. We ran – no, not ran, we actually took flight like we had jet engines in our rear, burning the road with our feet.

We passed the alley’s exit and kept running for a few yards before we dared turn our heads back to see that the dog was no longer chasing us. We saw, to our relief, that he had stopped just at the alley’s exit, marching back and forth and growling, and then just turned away and went back.

We stood there breathless, bent over with our hands on our knees, and then started to laugh.

“Damn, that was scary!” I said.

“Hell yeah!” Nathan responded between breaths. “And you know, I’ve never run so fast in my whole life!”

“Same here buddy,” I said.

“You know why is that?” he asked.

“Because this predator was chasing us, that’s why, man, I’m telling you, I could feel his teeth biting my butt”

“Exactly,” Nathan said “we ran so fast because we had feared we were going to die. We had practically run for our lives, and when you run for your life you do it as fast as you can”

I nodded.

“Listen,” he continued, “it was the scariest moment in my life, but also the moment I felt the most vital and fit. I have an idea – let’s end every route in this alley”

“You want to meet this creature again?!” I asked in disbelief

“Um, kind of, I don’t want to meet him at all, and that’s why I’ll do anything I can to escape from him, and that’s why it would bring the best out of me. Of us”.

I could see his point, and even though I felt lucky for being saved from that beast’s jaws at the last moment, and didn’t have any desire to meet him again, I could see how this encounter could improve my fitness. And honestly, I could feel my own vitality too.

So, from then on, whenever I planned a route, I made sure it ended in that alley. No matter where it started or how it continued, the end was always there.

Every time we entered that alley, the same scenario played out. First the loud barks, as if rising from the bowels of the earth, then the dog appearing at the gate, then the chase - teeth bared - and us running for our lives until the end of the route.

Over the years I think the dog got used to us; he was actually waiting for us. And we got used to him. I think we all - us and the dog - knew it was like a game by then. The dog would chase, we would run, and again and again. You know what? I think that if we had suddenly stopped running, the dog wouldn’t have known what to do.

***

I looked at Nathan, not understanding.

“What do you mean ‘your last run’?”

He was silent and no longer smiling. Finally, he said “I’m ill, Alex, very ill”.

“What - what do you… wait, what?” I stuttered inaudible syllables.

“Cancer” he spat the word like a piece of rotten food out of his mouth.

I guess a huge question mark was forming on my face, because he continued “I discovered it a few months ago. Those stomach pains that wouldn’t go away. I finally went to the doctor. The diagnosis was sharp – cancer. Stage four, eating me from within”.

I was speechless. What can you say in this moment?

“So this is how things go” he said and suddenly looked so tired and pale to me. “The doctors want to hospitalize me, no more running. As a matter of fact, I don’t know how I made it through this run” he smiled faintly.

And that was it.

The next week I didn’t run. I couldn’t bring myself to run without my partner. And I didn’t run the week after that, either. I texted him often, asking how he was holding up, but it was a waste of words. He is dying. That’s how he was holding up. And there was nothing I, or anyone else for that matter, could do about that.

But I felt it wasn’t over, not yet anyway. We had run together for so many years. It felt unfair and I thought he deserved a better ending. I called him. His voice was weak and low.

“Nathan, I want you to run with me this week. One last time” I said those words and felt my throat constricted.

“How can I run?” he asked “I’m in a wheelchair, connected to ten different tubes, I’m dying, Alex” his voice broke.

“Come with your wheels and tubes, I’ll push you” I said. “Bring your wife. Bring your kids. Bring the doctors and nurses, bring whoever you want to”

He didn’t speak for so long, that I feared he had fainted. Then he sighed heavily.

“You are crazy” he said.

“Guess so, but will you come?”

“Yeah, alright, I will. But Alex -” his tone suddenly rose “- about the route”

“Yeah, don’t worry, it would be a very short one, I don’t want to push you for miles” I tried to joke awkwardly.

“No no” he said, and I heard he was gasping for air “the route, you know where it should end”

“You sure?”

He let out a weak sort of laugh and said “Yeah, I have to say my farewells to him, don’t I?”

***

We met on the appointed day. Nathan was carried out of a big ambulance, his wife was there, and his two kids. There was a nurse with a big case of medical instruments, I guessed. I brought my wife and kids too. Nathan was placed in the wheelchair. He looked like a shadow of himself; I tried not to look away.

“Let’s do it” he said, and I smiled and started to push.

I ran slowly, it wasn’t easy pushing a wheelchair, and I didn’t want to hurt Nathan or drop him out of the wheelchair accidently. It was a strange scene - a bunch of people running slowly, pushing a man in a wheelchair. People stared from their balconies; some of them waved at us, and Nathan did his best to wave back. A man in the street asked what it was all about, and after a quick explanation, he asked if he could join us. I looked at Nathan, but his eyes reassured me. I let him join. Another man joined, and a woman, and some kids, and before long, we had become quite a crowd of people, half running, half walking, some of them chatting, some of them cheering.

We arrived at the alley’s entrance. I stopped. The crowd stopped behind us.

“We don’t have to enter, you know” I said, but Nathan waved his hand

“Go on, that’s the whole point of it, isn’t it?”

I nodded and started running, as fast as I could, given the circumstances. Honestly, I was afraid. We heard the ritual starting. The barks, echoing in the street. I tried to rush, and as expected, the dog appeared at the gate and started to run.

The dog was older now. His fur was thinner and faded. First time I noticed he had a slight stumble. He didn’t run that fast. But he ran fast enough - faster than I could push.

“We won’t make it!” I groaned with effort, and suddenly Nathan said:

“Stop!”

“What?” I asked “You know we never stop here; we must run until the exit or…”

“Not today” he said very decisively and I stopped pushing, feeling the fear crawling down my spine.

The dog, in the middle of his chase, wasn’t prepared for that, and stopped running at once, skidding a few yards until he came to a halt.

There was a freezing silence. The crowd around us didn’t speak, I swear they didn’t even breathe.

“Turn me around” Nathan said, and I turned the wheelchair to face the dog.

He walked slowly toward us. He looked very old. I noticed he was missing some teeth, and the rest of them didn’t look so sharp and white anymore. He approached us slowly. Nathan raised his hand, full of wounds and needle pricks, and brought it closer and slowly in front of the dog’s nose.

The dog sniffed Nathan’s hand and lowered his head as if in approval. Nathan patted him behind his ear and I couldn’t believe it – the dog, this mighty hell creature, just knelt down and gave a faint howl.

Nathan smiled. He looked at me. “Now we can get out of here” he said.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead.

“Yeah, let’s get out of here” I told him, and began to push again.

And that was really our last run.

For Sharon G.