Twenty-Two More to Go

At mile twenty-six, Jim discovers he's entered the wrong race.

“Excuse me, folks. We’re closing up here.”

Ten of Jim's friends had been waiting at the finish line for hours.

Emma and Jane brought the balloons and cake. Brian was in charge of drinks. The girls insisted on champagne, but Brian knew Jim would want nothing more than a long draught of beer.

The keg sat beneath the folding table they'd brought, hidden behind a tablecloth that declared HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMBO! in neon letters.

"Closing up? But Jim hasn't crossed the finish line."

The maintenance worker glanced at his watch. “Race ended an hour ago. Permit’s expired, too. Gotta pack your stuff.”

“Maybe text him again?”

They nodded. Jim hadn't answered any of the previous texts. It's probably time to start figuring out where the hell he is.

Nobody was laughing about the surprise party anymore.

Meanwhile--

This running thing is for the birds.

This wasn't a new thought. It had been looping through Jim's head for the last nine miserable miles.

Nine miles down. Seventeen to go.

Six months ago, that would've sounded impossible. Back then, he'd just lost his latest job as a fry cook and the couch was fast becoming his go-to place, binge-watching YouTube videos his only companion.

His mother claimed he smelled like stale chips and poor decisions. His father rarely said anything at all, though the disappointed look over his coffee cup said plenty.

"Who're you calling a disappointment?" sat permanently on the tip of Jim's tongue. Didn't spending every waking hour at the kitchen table mean his father was disappointed in himself, too?

"Get a hobby" was another comeback Jim kept to himself. Instead, he just gathered up chips and soda and retired to the den for another round of videos.

That was before the “intervention.”

Three of his friends came over and ambushed him right there in the den with lines like, "It's time to look forward," and, "You're only twenty-five, Jim. You'll get another job."

Then Brian delivered the knockout punch.

"Hey, Emma asked after you, mate."

They had a plan, these friends. He should train for a marathon. The one that took place on his birthday. It’ll be like turning over a new leaf, they said. We’ll have a beer after, to celebrate.

Brian had texted him the registration link months ago. Jim had clicked it between YouTube videos and never looked at it again.

Good plan. Unfortunately, he couldn't exactly couch-potato his way through marathon training. This plan entailed hauling his ass off the couch on a regular basis because nothing said failure quite like dying during a run on your twenty-sixth birthday.

So off he went. Short runs. Then longer ones. He was gone more and more hours during the day, during which time his mother snuck into the den to fumigate the couch and hoover all the potato chip crumbs that had ground into the rug.

Come race day, Jim was as ready as he was going to be. He was almost certain his friends would be waiting with a keg at the finish line. Nothing says happy birthday like a beer and a shot, Jim thought as his shoes slapped the pavement. One foot in front of the other. Kegger at the end.

Someone on the side of the road handed him a paper cup of water. He gulped it down as he continued, flinging the empty cup to the ground. Where else could you throw trash on the ground and have people cheer you on? Not anywhere he could think of. He couldn’t even leave the soda bottle on the counter at home without his mother tsking as she put it away.

Passing the mile twenty-five marker, Jim figured the crowds would get more excited as he neared the finish. The other runners kept their pace, one foot steady after the other.

He'd fallen behind awhile back, but picked up the pace because he was near the end.

Mile twenty-six.

Jim threw both arms into the air.
Nobody else did.
Nobody slowed.
Nobody cheered.
Nobody even looked up.

One guy accepted another cup of water.

The runners around him continued forward as if mile twenty-six meant absolutely nothing.

There was no finish line.
No ribbon.
No friends.
No beer.
Just another volunteer holding out another cup of water.

Jim jogged up beside a runner he'd been matching stride with for the past few miles.

“What gives?” He panted. “Where’s the finish?”

The guy gave him a strange look. “Twenty-two to go, mate. Better pace yourself. You look done in.”

Jim nearly stopped in his tracks. Only the fear of being mowed down by the runners behind him kept him moving.

"Twenty-two?" he shouted. “Twenty-two what?”

Another runner came abreast of him. “Fifty-miler, mate. The Alcott Race for the Cure.” She looked him up and down. “Better pace yourself. Got a ways to go.”

Confused, Jim’s feet kept moving even while his brain spun in panic. Alcott? He'd signed up for the Riverside Marathon. Hadn't he?

Too embarrassed to stop, Jim kept running. Sipping water. Flinging paper cups to the ground.

At mile fifty, there finally was a finish line. Jim crossed it, his feet still moving because after fifty miles, moving forward was all his body knew how to do.

When he finally staggered to a stop, someone hung a participation medal around his neck.
Jim pulled out his phone, switched off silent mode, and called Brian.

“Dude. Where’s my beer?”

***
908 words
Prompt: Jim has been training for months to run a 26 mile marathon on his 26th birthday. His friends decide to hold a surprise birthday celebration for him at the finish line, complete with balloons, cake, and champagne - but six hours after the start of the race, Jim has not yet appeared, and the race officials are packing things up, inlucing the finish line. What happened to Jim?

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