Sports Day

       The setting sun protested through the flaky Beijing smog. I say flaky, not warm and hazy like back in New York – flaky: chunks of it splintering off, and logging, wrapped in mucus, into my windpipe.

       The track, turning from dusty red to ashy gray by the coming of dusk, gave slightly with every footstep. I suffered from the shock and disconnection of an unprepared runner in the cold. I felt light yet clumsy, my brain a drunk puppeteer jiggling my wooden limbs in rough approximation of movement. Five more laps to go. It was a 1500 meter time trial, which meant 7.5 laps on Middle School #2’s 200 meter toy track. I was the last of four runners.

       The event itself was familiar to me. For Cross Country back home it comprised of a ‘bread-and-butter’ workout – three sets of 1500m out on Drinkwater Road, behind the boiler plant, Coach Weber tailing us in his dented blue Volvo, his reedy voice shouting encouragement. We would take a long cool down, interspersed with familiar jokes, spit, cuss words, and pee breaks. The 1500 tasted of perfectly crisp apples and smelled of wet leaves.

       As I rounded the third lap, something bitter and scaly turned in my mouth. I started to add a little more speed and set my sights on the runner ahead, Hu, a scrawny junior with both liberal braces and pimples. An unfortunate soul dogged by an unflattering nickname. I guess some things are the same no matter where you are from. His nickname is ET, and as I closed in I could see why – as he ran, his head bobbed up and down in exaggerated motions on his awkwardly long neck. I dug in harder and picked him off. My imported tactics, right out of Coach Weber’s book, were working well. I had started slow and let the competition tire out.

       The shaded sides of the track came into focus, now lined with mothers armed with home-baked cookies, wrinkled old local men in ugly sweaters who called us "harriers", and members of the girl’s team, flush and reddened from their own race, reading out splits punctuated with high-pitched screams.

       Up next was Liu, defined in spandex shorts, his Manchurian face accented by the timid blue mustache particular to Chinese boys. I passed him on the straightaway of the fifth lap, my tightened legs catching more than I had expected. The track was gritty, like the horse paths in Central Park that run around the reservoir. It made me think of harsh morning runs, the blurry sun illuminating painfully tiny shorts on the skinny legs of middle-aged fanatics.

       I looked up at the final, a girl I didn’t know. On the seventh lap I kicked into a sprint, my oiled legs flicking the track. I was gaining ground, but not enough. I pushed on and could see the panting finish, pained faces and supporting arms, the Popsicle stick with my place number on it, to be handed to clean-cut scorekeepers swathed in swishy nylon. Then the shouts stopped. The spectators disappeared. It was over. I was a clumsy foreigner struggling to fit in, separated by language and experience, unable to communicate all but my most basic thoughts.

       And I just got beat by a girl. Well, that’s what tomorrow is there for, isn’t it?