I'm pretty sure OP is trolling, but either way, you should write a book about this. You could make some decent money.
I'm pretty sure OP is trolling, but either way, you should write a book about this. You could make some decent money.
Very creative... at least it's not another trolling thread about teachers, diet, or Trump.
117 on soft surfaces is the start. It will build. Don't fall, Sykes.
sykes wrote:
"Hello there." I said dismissively.
sykes
General Kenobi *cough* *cough*
robert678 wrote:
I'm pretty sure OP is trolling, but either way, you should write a book about this. You could make some decent money.
If you think this is real then let me tell you about the Nigerian prince that left a large sum of money that we can get if you just wire me $10,000.
spinozza wrote:
robert678 wrote:
I'm pretty sure OP is trolling, but either way, you should write a book about this. You could make some decent money.
If you think this is real then let me tell you about the Nigerian prince that left a large sum of money that we can get if you just wire me $10,000.
Sounds like a plan stan.
Thank you Rabannah. I appreciated your visit.
I realized something on the run today.
Lindgren's shadow makes wonderlands sigh.
Folie å deux?
Is OP done posting? I was enjoying this thread.
SYKES WTF HAPPENED!? DID YOU FALL?
Yeah come on Sykes, this is great. (Also why the f does let's run not use standard off the shelf forum software that lets you follow posts....)
WE WANT MORE.
sykes, I am really concerned. You seem to have vanished into thin air.
Sykes, did you break the banister?
Has anyone actually emailed TheHighLedge@gmail.com...?
Sykes has crashed through his bannister and is lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.
If this is a piece of creative writing, I am thoroughly enjoying it. There are elements of OaR, The Purple Runner, The Olympian, Sri Chinmoy Marathon Team, Dick Beardsley, and various other books, both fiction and non.
If this is not a piece of creative writing...well stranger, unexplained things have happened.
Either way, I'm looking forward to the next installment.
I am writing from Sheriff Nick’s computer.
An old friend from highschool cross country days, Nick was kind enough to put me up in his guest room. Before leaving for the station this morning, he explained how I had made him promise not to let me out for 48 hours. The sweet man, his eyes looked tired when he opened the front door and walked out to his squad car. Even now, sitting here in the quiet of his house, at his computer desk, I cannot remember what I said, or most of what I did.
Here is what I do remember. I did not fall.
“117 on soft surfaces. Don’t fall, Sykes.” That banister feels like a long time ago now. It was a monotonous one, yes. But then it just got familiar. The boredom somehow shifted to a smooth routine. The park loops, the yellowed Winter grass, tossing stones into my boot until my hands were empty and it was time to become a farmer again. By the weekend, they felt less like miles that I was running. I do not know what I mean by that. The legs were indeed tired. Thinner. But I had started the week tired. If anything, I was calmer by the end of that bannister. Other than the holy number - 117 - miles felt like arbitrary measurements of effort. I could have kept on looping. But then again, I had no reason to.
My fiance convinced me to expand the fencing around our farm field to accommodate for a pawpaw crop. Though still pessimistic, I conceded. So when I came home Tuesday night with supplies from the hardware store, I found a banister waiting for me; an already-read email from The High Ledge. My sweetie must have seen it in our inbox.
“Kings, when notified. Go find the wineskin.”
Hmm. Different. No numbers. No training directives. It sounded like a vague riddle. Something you would read in Don Quixote or an old noir novel. Instead of getting the hit of adrenaline I had grown accustomed to, I felt deflated. I wondered what my partner thought of it.
The next morning, I laced up my shoes, not knowing where I would run. How would I find a damn wineskin with no hint or direction? I felt aimless, impatient, so I picked one of my favorite country loops and convinced myself of the allure of hard surfaces and quick leg turnover.
An hour in, flying along at a smooth clip, and who was this wirey, mustachioed man waiting for me on the side of the road? Greg. A big, stupid grin on his face and a literal goat’s bladder slung around his shoulder. “I thought you might be on this route today. They should call you Clockwork, Sykes.” He made himself laugh. “Looking good out there. How are the legs feeling?”
“Fine, Greg. What’s going on with this week’s banister? I’m interested in running, not puzzles.” Greg lifted the braided strap off of his shoulder and put it around mine.
“Listen, Sykes. This one is serious. You can’t afford to repeat it.” As he spoke, I heard a familiar engine coming up the road. I turned to see my fiance driving by with our dog barking at Greg from the passenger seat. I waved automatically, but I do not think she waved back. I felt a sense of uneasiness as I brought my hand down to the wineskin. Shame, for some reason.
“She’s good-looking Sykes, seems like a keeper.”
“She is.” I meant it, still watching her truck as it receded out of sight. I turned back to Greg.
The usual vaudevillian features in his face evaporated to reveal a boyish sincerity. Admiration? It startled me. I felt uncomfortable in that moment of intimacy. But maybe there was more to this kid than I first thought. And then in a blink, he was back to looking like a man preparing to be shot out of a cannon.
“Listen, Sykes. Take a sip, run a dozen miles. In that order. You take 2 sips each day until you hear from them again. Is that clear? 2 sips. It will take longer than a week before they write to you - I almost guarantee it. So stock up on food, set your alarm, and buckle in. It’s gonna be hard and they will know if you cut things short. They always do. Is that clear enough for you, Clockwork?” He laughed again at that.
“24 miles a day? Wait, what’s in this?” I twisted off the cap and sniffed it. There is no other way to describe the scent of that liquid other than: metallic tang (I nearly threw up just now recalling it).
“I honestly don’t know. Keep it capped. It’s strong, and it seems to get stronger over time. But that could have just been my experience. You will be notified when you are kinged.”
“Wha---,” Greg interrupted me.
“Look, I’ve got to get working on my banister. I’ve got a big week. How much have you run already today?”
“About 10 or so, why?”
“Shoot. I was trying to catch you earlier. Take a sip, run a dozen. Take another sip, run another dozen. You ever run 34 miles in a day before?” He laughed really hard then, “because you’re about to!”
-
My voice is shot.
I have faint memories of yelling.
I spent the afternoon writing this and thinking about my fiance, her parents and the farm. Just 2 months ago we were all celebrating Christmas together; my fiance and I set up our dining table on their porch so as to respect her parents’ social distancing protocols. It feels like an eternity ago.
I have been trying to remember the details of what has happened in the last 2 weeks since Greg handed me that flask. It makes more sense to me now why, this morning, Nick kept asking if I was going to be alright here without him.
I feel equally like I have been kidnapped and been a kidnapper.
-
It is evening now.
Nick just got home from the station.
I will leave things here but I do intend to provide an update that brings you all to speed on the last 2 weeks. I just need to get myself up to speed first.
Nick says he can get the bladder tested. We both suspect that my psychotic episode was brought on by its contents.
I feel so thoroughly...gullible. That is it. That is the word I have been searching for all day.
I think I have felt this in a real way for a few weeks now - so small and unathletic - which is why I have not shared any updates with you all. But I do still believe that there is merit in doing so. That there are other active Ledgers out there.
If that is you, respond with The High Ledge’s signature and I will know. You can keep your anonymity. I respect it.
There are days unaccounted for, but I can currently total up 12 that I ran with the wineskin around my shoulder.
298 miles in 12 days.
sykes
I had intended to go to bed after posting.
Instead, I put the trainers on and headed down the road just outside of Nick's place.
I ran the first mile slowly. It felt like my body was remembering itself.
And then, like swimming downstream, I must have covered 8 or 9 miles in 40 minutes. It was effortless but the ease of it felt somehow troubling. Like it was someone else running.
I am not familiar with the roads out here and do not have a way of measuring this effort. I admit that my sense of distance is most likely inaccurate right now.
But I also remember what sub-5s feel like from workouts back in college.
Those were they, with room to spare.
When I crept back inside Nick's house, I took one last peek at the computer before heading to bed.
A message.
"You have been chosen for Spring Ceremony. Don't fall, Sykes."
I need sleep.
The replies got deleted. Suspicious. I hope no one on this website is involved behind the scenes with the high ledge. I am just glad that sykes is OK and that Nick (who seems to be a nice man) is looking out for him.
I also have one last thing to say, sykes:
Time and tide wait for no man.