Four runners passed him as he sat on the park bench, sipping his hot coffee. Jones chuckled, remembering the first half-marathon, a 13.1-mile race he completed twenty-three years ago, holding the cigarette between the fingers of his right hand, a small paper coffee cup in the other. He smirked, not because their form was off or that the colors each one wore were neon, bright, and bordering on offensive to the eyes. Bright fluorescent green and yellow. But the orange? Orange was the worst of the colors. No matter how often you blinked, that orange burned in your brain. That was true for Jones, remembering how the one person who beat him in the half, in his age division, wore that same color, etched in his mind for eternity.

Two more women runners passed by, waving and saying hello in a friendly, cordial way. Jones raised his coffee and puffed on his smoke, doing his best to blow it on the path right where the bike riders, roller skaters, and runners passed. Jones felt angry at all those super healthy people who looked down their noses running by. He wondered if they ever thought about the things Jones was enjoying, namely coffee and cigarettes. Some runners were people who gave up smoking and drank alcohol after a hard race. Anything more than 5k would be a giant race for most runners.

Then it happened – the one thing he didn’t want to see this beautiful morning, the sun cresting over the hillside, glinting off the Pacific Ocean. Puffing away on the cigarette, he flicked it at the oncoming runner, a one-time friend, Richard. Jones was running for a few years before Richard got into it. The difference between the two men – Jones didn’t have money, but Richard did. Their rivalry started the first day, Jones knowing he could outpace Richard. So he did, often. And because they were the same age, they always fell into the same age division for every race. For five years, Jones outperformed Richard, beating him by two minutes.

Injuries notwithstanding, Richard and Jones kept trying to one-up each other at every race. From half-marathons to marathons, and even moving their competitiveness up to ultrarunning, scoring first a 50k that he beat Richard by a second, to a 50-miler. Richard didn’t finish his 50 miles, succumbing to a glute injury that took him out of the race. But his competitive nature didn’t stop because he was hurt. Richard did everything he could to fix the injury. But every sports therapist, chiropractor, and physical therapist told him the one thing no runner wanted to hear: Stay off your feet and rest for the next six to ten weeks. So, unlike most runners, Richard stayed off his feet but remained active, swimming, riding one of the four mountain bikes he purchased, doing yoga and pilates, and some strength training. None of that stopped Richard from training, readying himself for the day he would run again.

“Hey, Jones!” Richard came over, stopping to talk to Richard, who pulled out another one of his Camels and lit it, biting down hard on the butt.

“Hey,” Richard replied through his clenched teeth. The wind made it difficult to light his cigarette, but Richard cupped his hands around it, helping Jones. Extra protection from the wind and the smoke burned to life. Jones took a drag and blew it in Richard’s mouth. “How are you these days, my old friend?” Jones’s voice was edgy, bordering on sarcastic, but Richard took it in stride.

“I’m good,” Richard said, bouncing from one foot to the other. “Gotta stay loose, bud. Training for my first 100-miler.”

“Oh yeah?” Jones asked. “When’s that happening?”

“Not for six months, but I have three 5k’s, 2 half-marathons, and 3 marathons between now and then. I want to do it right, not get hurt and all that jazz.”

“Right, right,” Jones answered, sitting down and sipping his coffee. His fingers were digging into the sides, and for a split second he thought if he held it any tighter, he’d spill coffee everywhere. Instead, Jones switched hands, putting the smoke in his left hand and the coffee in his right.

“How have you been?” Richard hadn’t stopped bouncing, moving from the balls of his feet to his toes. The big motions would’ve looked funny to any average person passing by but to runners? This wasn’t odd. Sure, it looked silly, but if it kept the injuries at bay? Every runner would do it. “I heard rumors that you were looking for another job.”

Jones rolled his eyes. “Yeah. That’s true. I wish it wasn’t, but it is.” He took a drag and did his best to blow the smoke out away from Richard’s face. But, as every smoker knows, smoke always moves to the nonsmoker – each and every time, without fail! And so it did now. “Sorry about that,” Jones said, although he didn’t mean a word of it. “The business closed, so I’m trying to find a communications position.”

“Yeah? I’m sorry to hear it.” Richard stopped bouncing and sat down next to Jones. “You should come and work out with me. You’d love it!”

“Richard, that sounds all well and good, but I don’t have the funds to afford a personal trainer, much less the gear needed to get started again.”

“That’s too bad. Well, I wish you the best,” Richard said, standing up, bouncing on his feet and running off.

“I wish you the best,” Jones said under his breath, taking on the most sarcastic tone he could. “Dude’s got more money than he knows what to do with, and here I am struggling to make ends meet. Richard wanted to help me? Did he bother to ask me what I needed? Or was he just interested in starting up our competition again? Jones rolled his eyes, finished his coffee, crushed the cup, took one last drag from the smoke, and flicked it. “Screw him.” Jones tossed the coffee cup into the trash can by the bench. Walking back to his Volkswagen, Jones unlocked it, tapping on the cloth top, debating whether or not he should drive with the top down. He felt a gust of wind blow up behind him, jumped in and opted to keep it up at least for a few more days.