The Crazy Coyote Chase
by Scott Palmieri
On all days but this one, a middle-aged man wearing a coyote mask, pedaling his bicycle near a school, would raise concern. But not here, at the Crazy Coyote Chase, the annual fundraiser for my daughter’s middle school. The 5K is over, but it will never be forgotten, its runners gnawing orange slices, tracing names on results lists, tossing numbered tickets in baskets. There are still mutterings over the chaos, what will surely go down in the annals of PTO infamy.
But there is little time to dwell, as I near the start line of the second and last event of the morning–the Fun Run–with my three children: my daughter who loves to run, my son who loves to win, and our sixth grade Coyote, the daughter who hates to run. I can understand how the term “Fun Run” can be, for some, like saying “enjoyable angina” or “happy hernia.” I don’t love long distance running much, either. But every year, I run a 6.9K for charity, sponsored by a local tavern, known locally for its 69 beers, some of which are offered at race’s end. To survive longer distances, I tell my suffering self that there is no finish line, hoping to keep my pace and table doubts, when I start wondering how I’ll possibly make it.
But the Fun Run is only a mile, and we are here to promote physical fitness and teach those “never give up” metaphors, while we raise money for field trips and school programs. Someone blares from a bullhorn for the mingling parents and children to get ready. A few feet ahead of me, my daughter who loves to run and son who loves to win have wrangled their way to the start line.
The race begins, and we cross the one busy road to a quiet neighborhood, as I try to keep view of my two determined runners who have dashed ahead. Last year, I worried less about leaving my daughter who hates to run, when she kept an easy pace with her old friend Erin, sharing with her a sweet obliviousness to competition. Two days ago, Erin’s mother, my wife’s second cousin, died of a massive heart attack. Just 42, she battled weight her whole life, an unsuccessful stomach reduction surgery and an abusive boyfriend, Erin’s father, whom Erin does not remember.
At the first flagger, my daughter and I separate. It is here where the already infamous 5K went terribly wrong, when my wife’s cell phone rang, as she and other parents on the Crazy Coyote Chase Committee, stationed in the cafetorium, were overseeing the registrations, silent auctions, raffles and racing medals. The call came from another middle school mother, who oversaw the course, and her first sentence, I assert, has never been uttered before: “The coyote went the wrong way!”
My love for quotidian chaos makes we wonder if a coyote has ever been accused of such a thing. Just moments into the race, the teenaged volunteer who first donned the mask turned too soon, veering the wrong way for the real runners, in their nylon tank tops and runner shorts, who saw this sanctioned event as an inexpensive way to record their monthly time. It was too late to save them, though the flaggers lassoed the rest to the correct course.
One real runner, in particular, will never forgive this. He resembled Will Ferrell but an enraged, caffeine-charged children’s soccer coach Will Ferrell from the movie Kicking and Screaming, who would crash into water coolers, calling himself a “Tornado of Anger.” Tornado, in his running gear, hairy arms and legs, dwarfed the middle-schoolers in their sweats and hoodies and jeans, a sight gag befitting the star of Elf. And as he neared the end of his 5K, a seasoned runner like Tornado must have wondered why he was so far from the end. One can only imagine the anger that festered in the sweat and breath with each extra step. The course photographer snapped a picture as he came through the school driveway toward the finish line, as a tween in jeans, having run about a mile less, seemed to be gaining on him, Tornado pushing to the end, his painted perm still in tact, atop his haggard countenance.
I am not one to judge too harshly the middle-aged still “living the dream,” having played ten years now in a men’s baseball league. One night, while I was teaching a summer class, I wore sliding shorts and a jock strap beneath my khakis, hidden along with long blue baseball socks, so, after breaking down Othello, I could dress more quickly into my uniform in the field’s parking lot and play a few innings.
When Tornado finished, he ripped off his number bib and aimed his rage at the retractable ropes and posts, lined with cheering parents and teachers. He panted past the air-tattoo artist and the crowd of children waiting at the rented rock wall and through the open door that led to the cafetorium. As with most serious runners after a race with questionable integrity, he looked for the first mother he could yell at.
“Take my time off the list! I want my money back! I can’t believe this!” yelled Tornado, competing with the booming version of “This is How We Do It” that bounced from the DJ’s speakers.
One father tried to negotiate peace, as Tornado peppered the PTO, and the mother with the cash box counted out his 25 dollars and 25 for his wife, who was shaking her head but whose disgust was later clarified when she said, “I’m so sorry for my husband.” The small troop of the other real runners entered, sweating, smiling, taking it much better than Tornado, who jumped in his sports car, grunting on his way out at the bubbly teacher’s aide who yelled, “Thank you so much for coming!”
Near the end of the Fun Run, my own competitiveness kicks in after I see my daughter who loves to run and my son who loves to win safely slip across the busy street and back to the school, past the last flagger. I am proud of their inner athletic fire. But I keep thinking of Erin’s mother, who tried her best, too, just a few weeks from finishing her degree at the local university, the diploma to be given posthumously to Erin, who will cross the stage to accept it. Those were the thoughts that swirled when I first heard the news, in my office, as I struggled to speak, trying not to break for my colleague, who, in the loveliest of ways, said that some children are hardwired for this. Perhaps this is already true for Erin, in good part from her mother’s efforts, never wanting her daughter to be known as “the girl whose father is in prison” or “the girl whose father fractured her skull,” and certainly not as “the girl who has no parents.”
I finish at a decent pace, but I fear that my daughter who hates to run has drifted back too far, that this will be more of a disastrous day and she’ll end the race by herself, she, who, after braving through the day we heard the news, broke down that night, a frustrating math problem giving way to everything else. But here she comes, among others trying to end well, chugging at a good pace, finding another gear I didn’t know she had. I am so proud and remember her smile the year before and Erin’s smile, as they swung their connected hands across the finish line.
We enter the after-party, where the winners are announced- for what has been earned, what has been spent and what has been chosen at random. Despite the 5K, the morning has been a success. The PTO has raised good money, and we have had our workouts. But I am struggling to name the metaphors, as we help clean, sweep the floors, box up the extra tickets and t-shirts, reassemble the tables to their rows. A year ago, Erin’s mother smiled and waved, as they drifted out of the doors, off to start the last year of her life, just the twelfth of Erin’s, with all that time and distance to come.
Try your best? Run your race? Find another gear? If I can’t find the lessons, I worry that my children will believe it’s all foolish and brimming with dangers, as if we’re all just chasing coyotes. But the best metaphors are never easy. Perhaps time will help, perhaps next year, when the Crazy Coyote Chase Committee invites you, one and all, with the promise to do better and to cheer you, in your suffering self, when you don’t know how you’ll possibly make it.
Scott Palmieri is a professor of English at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, Rhode Island. His writing has been published in Sport Literate, Aethlon, Hobart, The Leaflet, The Alembic, and Teacher as Writer. He played baseball at Providence College and continues his love of the sport through writing, coaching Little League, and playing, as long as his legs will allow, in a senior men’s league. He lives in Wakefield, Rhode Island, with his wife and three children, his biggest fans.