lead is up to half an hour," Henderson said to me as the Race Bunny rubbed
our sore calves.
"So I can give
you 10 minutes a day."
"But you might
cramp up and fall down in the rocks of Kaena Point tomorrow."
"And lie there
kicking in random jerks," said the Race Bunny, "like a cockroach when
you spray him with Raid."
Shultz had run
with a vengeance, having been passed by Gorey with six miles to go. "No
self-destructive smoker was going to pull that," he said. "I ran behind
him for a while and then when he hit the wall, I passed him and beat him by six
minutes." Shultz rubbed it in by continuing for a half mile past the
finish. Gorey had a Primo and walked into town for some cigarettes. We had
begun to consider ourselves a raffish collection, scraggly, bony and
unconstrained by a strict sense of propriety. We were now to see what real
returned from town he passed a knot of local youths in the parking lot. One
called out to him that he'd heard that.
Gorey hadn't said
anything. An able bartender, he recognized that the man was drunk and kept
walking. The fractious local stumbled after him and took a wild swing. Gorey
easily ducked and kept moving. The drunk followed, trailed in turn by half a
dozen of his friends. This procession came into our camp, and once there, the
intruders went wild, attacking Dave Gutierrez and George Collins perhaps
because they are Chicano and black, respectively, and were tent-mates, and this
had aroused some racist ire in the observing locals. They couldn't have picked
a worse man to fight than Gutierrez, who stunned one of them with a single
punch and took two others to the ground.
At length the
attackers, shouting that they would return, retreated across the park.
Gutierrez had a scraped collarbone, and the nail on his left big toe had been
torn away, apparently by a tent peg.