Sumutri
Purpose
The silence is broken by the gentle lapping of waves upon the shore, the sound of his breath upon the crisp morning air, and the whisper of his feet upon the dew-drenched ground. The char-coal cliffs rise from sea to sky like jagged skyscrapers. Lush ev-ergreens twist and strain in their eternal dance toward the heavens. The turquoise sea pushes toward the rugged shoreline southward and the black sand beaches to the north. The cliffs, the trees and the sea have been here forever. At least for the 12 years that Sumutri has called them his friends.
His silhouette glides gracefully against the rising sun, now peeking over the cliff-tops. The gentle morning rays dance from his ebony skin, now glistening with beads of sweat. Nothing else exists in this moment. Just a young man, the island, and infinite joy.
The path is well worn from more than a decade's use. One spring morning, when he was but seven, Sumutri decided to run. And run. And run. He has run along this path every single day of his childhood and through his teenage years. He does not know why he runs, only that he loves to. He needs no other reason. He loves the feeling of the earth upon his bounding feet. He loves the smell of sea and salt and evergreen in the air. He is simply grateful to be part of the divine beauty where the land meets the sea.
Sumutri is a legend on this small tropical island. Now 19, he runs more than twenty miles across the cliffs and along the beaches every day. He has never been timed' no one on this re-mote island owns a watch or a clock. But he is as swift as the wind. And that is enough for him.
Some may say that he runs without a purpose. Running has no goal, no agenda, they would say. What is he to gain? Where is he going? What does all of this running help him accomplish in life? But they do not understand. Or perhaps they simply cannot understand. To Sumutri, running is life. Nothing gives him more pleasure, more passion, more joy than running along the path that he alone has created.
He does not know why, or even how it all began. He only knows that for as long as he can remember, he has loved to run. He runs not away from something, nor toward anything. It is just a part, his favorite part, of each and every day.
And so he runs. Down the path through the garden to the small grove of date palms by the shore. Along the black sand beach formed by the persistent attack of waves against the vol-canic shoreline. Up the steep hillside leading to the shoreline cliffs. Atop cliffs with a panoramic view of the endless sea. Back down the cliffs, through the gardens and fields along the village, and finally through the acres of plantains that lead to the back of his family's acreage. Some days the trip is quicker. Other days, he takes a moment to enjoy the view or a ripe banana. But every day, the journey takes precisely the right amount of time.
Inspiration
Twelve years earlier, the waking sun bursts through the cracks of the grass hut that Sumutri calls home. The palm fronds lining the roof and walls rustle in the morning breeze. The seven-year-old island boy begins to stir. It is a morning like any other. The spring season means that today will be filled with tilling the black earth and planting crops on the family's small farm. But as his feet touch the cool dirt floor, Sumutri has a feeling that the work can wait. There is something else, a small voice within, whispering to his heart.
As he ties the laces of his Nikes, exchanged by a tourist for a feast of fresh fruits and vegetables, he feels the urge to venture out along the island. As the rest of the family gathers for break-fast, Sumutri quietly slips off into the morning. He feels his knees begin to lift and his feet begin to run. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. He has run many times before' playing with friends or chasing after a chicken who escaped through the fence. But something is different today. He feels the rush of wind through his hair as he runs faster and faster. He welcomes the slight burning in his chest as his body demands more and more air. He feels the connection of his feet to the earth. And he becomes part of the surroundings, as though he and the world are one.
Before he knows it, he has traveled five miles along the beach. It is but two miles to the cliffs and the beautiful views they provide. He is sure he can make it that far. He climbs the steep hillside with determination, even though his legs complain and his chest is on fire. Finally, he reaches the apex, the very top of the world. He pauses for a moment to catch his breath and wonders why so few venture to this amazing vista. This moment is short-lived, as anticipation propels his feet to action. Every hilltop provides a unique view, an entirely new perspective. Each step provides inspiration to take the next. He hurries from place to place, letting in the potent energy his senses absorb from this magical landscape.
Soon, he has ventured another three miles along the cliff-tops to the southern tip of the island. He takes one last view of the vast ocean before him and descends down the hillside toward the village. He suddenly realizes that he is ten miles from home. But the running is easier now. He knows that if he was able to run ten miles away from home, he can certainly run the ten miles back.
As he passes alongside the village, others are making their way out to the fields. They each stop to watch Sumutri. They seem a bit puzzled, but shout their greetings and wave nonethe-less. Sumutri waves back and smiles. It feels so good to run. What wonderful gifts the island has shown him! He wonders why he hasn't done this before. Has no one else discovered the magic that a morning run around the island provides?
He emerges from the plantains to find his family in the fields. Father breaks up the soil as Mother and Sister plant this year's crop. 'There you are, Sumutri,' calls Father. 'Where have you been?'
'I've just been to the end of the island and back.'
'No!' Mother chimes in. 'That's impossible. No one can travel that far so quickly. Now please help us with the planting.'
. . .This was the first day that Sumutri ran. For him, it was the first day he felt truly alive. His family soon discovered that he was telling the truth. And soon all of the more than 400 is-landers had heard the story of his adventures. And every one of the more than 400 thought he had gone crazy.
'Why must you run every day?' asks Father, now that Su-mutri has run every morning for more than a week.
'Because I love to,' Sumutri replies.
'If it is something you love, if it inspires you, then it is something which you should do, my son.'
The Visitor
Now, twelve years later, Sumutri has grown. He is tall and lean. His legs are long and powerful like the graceful palms he passes each morning. He hardly notices the steep incline leading to the cliff-tops anymore, and his breath no longer labors. The locals no longer laugh at Sumutri's daily routine. Many have even taken up running themselves, although to a far lesser de-gree. They now call him 'The Swift One' in their native tongue.
The flowers which cover the hillsides are in full bloom to-day, showering the island in fiery red, brilliant gold and soft lav-ender. Their delicate scents delight Sumutri's nose as he enjoys his daily run. As he passes through this kaleidoscope on his de-scent toward the village, there appears a man he has never seen before. Sumutri knows this man is a tourist because of his white skin, bright shirt and funny shorts. There are not many tourists on this tiny island, but a few each week ride Fisher Joe's boat out from the mainland to spend a quiet day or two. As Sumutri ap-proaches, the man simply stands quietly and watches as he runs by. Nothing is said as he continues on his trek home.
It is now nearly lunchtime. Sumutri hears a conversation outside near the garden. He approaches to find the tourist speak-ing to Father.
'Come here, Sumutri,' Father calls excitedly. 'This is Mr. Johnson. He is from America.'
'Ello, Mr. Johnson. I'm pleasured to meet you,' says Su-mutri in his broken English.
'The pleasure is all mine,' the man replies. 'I am on vaca-tion and heard that this island is very beautiful. So I took a boat' Fisher Joe brought me over. Anyway, I've been here four days now, and I've watched you run every morning.'
'Yes, sir. I have run every mornin' since I was seven!'
'Every morning?'
'Every one. Even two years ago the week I was ill.'
'Mr. Johnson is a representative of the American Olympic team,' Father blurts out.
'What's that?' asks a perplexed Sumutri.
'The Olympics are an event where the best athletes in the world compete. The U.S. team is one of the best in the world,' explains Mr. Johnson.
'Why would they do that? Shouldn't everyone just run as fast as they can?'
'Well,' Mr. Johnson chuckles, 'it is considered a great honor to be the fastest.'
'Like who grows the sweetest and most beautiful melons?'
'Yes. Kind of like that. And the winners receive gold, silver or bronze medals. They are treated like heroes.'
'That's neat. It's been nice talking with you. Now I need to get to my chores.'
'Wait!' the tourist objects. 'Let me explain why I am talking to you and your father. I came here on vacation, but I heard from the local people about a young man who runs as fast as the wind. So I have watched you run every morning since I came. You are incredibly talented. I haven't seen anyone run so naturally in years. I would like to time you to see how fast you are. But from watching you, I think you have the potential to be a great track star! With the right training, you might just be good enough to compete in the Olympics.'
'But there are no Olympics here.'
'Yes, we would take you to America to give you special training. But first let's see how fast you really are. Would you like to know that?'
'Why, sure! That sounds like fun.'
And so they walk together through the garden and the palm grove to the black sand beach, Mr. Johnson with his stopwatch and Sumutri with nothing but his Nikes.
'This is the spot where I start my run,' explains Sumutri, pointing along the beachhead.
'This would be perfect,' replies Mr. Johnson. 'You will not be as fast on the sand as on a track, but it will work just fine. Let me count off 500 meters, then I will say 'Ready, set, go!'' He takes a stick and marks the starting line in the black sand. He has worked with runners for more than 30 years and is accustomed to stepping off distances. So he paces off into the distance a quarter mile away. He scratches a line for the finish, sets his stopwatch, and at the top of his lungs yells, 'Ready, Set, GO!'
A minute later, Sumutri approaches. He is fast and his gait smooth and effortless. As he crosses the line, the stopwatch clicks. 'That's a fair time Sumutri, considering the fact that you were running on the sand. Do you think you can run even faster?'
'Oh, I am supposed to run faster?' asks an inquisitive Su-mutri.
'Yes! Run as fast as you possibly can,' chuckles Mr. John-son.
'Let me go back. I will try to run fast this time,' Sumutri of-fers without the slightest hint of labor in his breath. As he jogs back to the starting line, Mr. Johnson smiles. If he ran reasonably fast without even trying, what will his strongest effort produce?
'Ready, Set, GO!'
This time, Sumutri appears with arms slashing, nearly a blur as he approaches. 'Click,' goes the stopwatch. Sumutri turns back and looks to Mr. Johnson. But not a word is spoken. Mr. Johnson's light skin has turned an even whiter shade of pale. He simply stares at the time on the watch, only a couple of tenths off world-class speed. And it came on a sand course from someone with no formal training.
'This is unbelievable,' Mr. Johnson finally mumbles, still staring at the stopwatch. 'Let me check the distance again. If this is true, you are one of the fastest in the world!'
'I run as fast as the wind. That is enough for me!'
They walk side-by-side across the charcoal sand, Mr. John-son carefully measuring his steps and Sumutri smiling to himself as he skips along.
The Offer
'Sumutri! Come quickly!' Sumutri hears Mother's excited voice coming from the back door. He picks up the large box of melons, which is now nearly full, and hurries toward the family hut.
'It's the telegram from Mr. Johnson!' she smiles as she looks at the typed message in her hands.
'What does it say, Mother?'
'Read for yourself, Sumutri!' as she hands him the paper.
Dear Sumutri,
I have reviewed your case with the U.S. Olympic Committee and with Immigration, and have arranged for a special visa and a spot on the Olympic training team. If you would like to come to America, you can be a hero. We will take care of all of the arrangements and all of your expenses.
The next Olympics are two years away. If you come soon, you can become a U.S. citizen in time to compete on the American team. I really enjoyed meeting you on my vacation three months ago. You are one of the fastest people I have ever met. With the training we can give you, I think you have a good chance of winning a gold medal.
I hope you accept my offer to come to America. I am going to come to the island in two weeks. Think it over between now and then.
Sincerely,
Frank Johnson
U.S. Olympic Committee
Sumutri grins from ear to ear, the kind of smile that comes only from a deep feeling of sincere pride. Mother senses his ex-citement and asks, 'What do you think? Would you like to go to America?'
'I don't know. This is my home. I love my life here.'
'That is true, son. But there is no future here. We have noth-ing but the island and our village. Here you can run all you want, but no one notices. In America, you could win races and may even become a hero!'
'But I do not need anyone except the sea and the sky to no-tice. I do not need to be a hero. I am happy just to run for my-self.'
Her face tightens from a soft smile to a firm seriousness. 'Son, look at me. We have so little. Just a grass hut and a few small fields. You can win no golden medal here. You can have no fame or fortune here. You should go.'
'I guess you are right, Mother. I will think about it until Mr. Johnson comes.'
Sumutri wrestles with this choice over the next two weeks. He asks the sea, but it does not answer. He asks the cliffs, but there is no reply. Something inside him tells him to stay. He is happy. All that he really needs is held within the land and the ocean, the fields of crops below and the flocks of birds above. Deep within, he knows that he truly loves his life here on the island. But everyone thinks he should go. His parents. All of the more than 400 islanders. And of course, Mr. Johnson. Everyone tells Sumutri to go to America.
Ten days pass. Mr. Johnson will arrive three mornings from tomorrow. 'Mother. Father. I have come to a decision,' Sumutri says quietly over their dinner of coconut-coated tilapia and mel-ons. 'When Mr. Johnson comes, I will go with him to run in America.'
Dinner ends abruptly, and the hut fills with hugs and tears of great joy. 'We are proud of you, son!' smiles Father.
'You have made the right decision,' adds Mother, clearing the tears from her cheek. 'Tuli, run and tell the village! Sumutri is going to America to become a hero!'
Sumutri hides his uncertainty. He does not wish to ruin this moment of joy for his family. He wonders if he will miss the smell of salt and evergreen, the morning sun rising above the cliffs, or the feeling of the black sand beneath his feet. But his choice must be correct. Everyone else says so.
A New World
Sumutri closes his eyes, but sleep escapes him. Many thoughts race through his mind. Tomorrow he will leave the is-land, the only world he has ever known. He is excited to venture into the outside world. He has read about America and seen many pictures in the tattered books at the village's small library room. But what is it really like? Is it as peaceful and beautiful as the island? Are the people warm and friendly like the villagers he has known? He decides that he will take one more run early in the morning before Mr. Johnson arrives. This gives him enough peace for sleep to finally come.
In what seems like an instant, the first ray of morning light awakens him. He quickly arises and puts on his shoes. No one else stirs as he slips quietly out the front door. Today he will run more slowly. He needs extra time to say goodbye to his best friends' the sand, the sea and the cliffs. He pays special attention to the feeling of the soft sand below his feet and says, 'Goodbye, sandy beach.' He takes a moment's rest to watch the sun peek over the cliffs one last time. 'I will miss you, golden sunrise.' As he climbs his hillside path, his outstretched hands glide through the tall grass and touch a few leaves reaching out from the twisting trees. He stops atop the charcoal cliff to take in a few deep breaths of ocean air. As he descends through the vil-lage, he wonders how different this new world will be.
Many villagers line the fields which Sumutri passes. They cheer and wave and bow their goodbyes. Sumutri stops to pick one last melon before returning home. He looks hard to find an especially ripe and beautiful one to share for breakfast.
'He's here! He's here!' Tuli shouts as she bursts through the door. Mr. Johnson walks down the path from the fields accom-panied by the sea-roughened figure of Fisher Joe. The air is elec-tric, and Mother cannot hold back a broad, white smile. Sumutri smiles back nervously. Father opens the door and invites Mr. Johnson and Fisher Joe in.
'Come, sit down. Join us for some breakfast,' offers Mother. 'We have prepared a feast for the one who is taking our son to become famous.'
'Thank you, ma'am. I just love the island cuisine,' Mr. Johnson offers. As they all enjoy a long breakfast together, Mr. Johnson does his best to describe America. But it is a bit like explaining physics to someone who has never learned basic sci-ence or mathematics.
'There are large cities and farms and mountains and rivers. If you want to go from here to there, you drive an automobile. There are more types of food than you can imagine, and most people go to the market to get all of their supplies.' After a lengthy and largely futile discussion of America, the conversa-tion shifts to Sumutri's future.
'We will take care of everything,' Mr. Johnson promises. 'Today we will ride with Fisher Joe to the mainland, take a small airplane to the city, and fly on a jet all the way to Atlanta, Geor-gia. We have a nice room waiting for Sumutri, with a bed, a nice bathroom, and a TV.'
'What's a TV?' inquires Sumutri.
The trip to the mainland is short and uneventful. The winds are calm, and Fisher Joe's small boat cuts easily through the gen-tly rolling waves. There is a taxi waiting at the dock to take Su-mutri and Mr. Johnson to the small airstrip, on the only spot of flat land for miles. Sumutri is visibly edgy as the taxi arrives at the airport. He has never been so close to an airplane before. 'Just think of it as a big, ugly seagull,' jokes Mr. Johnson, and they both laugh loudly.
Sumutri has but one small duffel, which contains most eve-rything he has ever owned. The cab driver slings the bag through the aircraft door to be packed with Mr. Johnson's lug-gage still onboard. As he makes his way up the narrow stairs, Sumutri looks back upon his island homeland in the distance. Finally he turns and disappears through the door.
Sumutri jumps just a little when the ignition fires and the en-gine roars to life. It is a louder noise than any he has ever heard, and he glances over. Mr. Johnson gives him a reassuring smile, as they sit back for takeoff. As his fingernails grip deeper and deeper into the armrests, Sumutri's insides are pushed up against his back. He closes his eyes as the small plane begins to bounce its way down the runway. Suddenly he feels his body tip back-ward and press against the seat as the plane lunges skyward. He does not open his eyes.
By the time Sumutri dares to peek out the window, the tiny trees below are just a blur. He is at the same time thrilled and deathly afraid. He notices his fingers, now frozen stiff against the seat. He slowly begins to pry them loose as he looks at the earth below. The ocean spreads forever to his right. Just below, the edge of the mainland meets the turquoise and teal water. The only place he has ever called home has long since disappeared from sight.
When they land two hours later, Sumutri sees many times more people than he has seen in his entire life. He is mesmerized by the hectic activities and the swarming masses. As they walk through the airport, Mr. Johnson handles all the details. Sumutri simply turns his head, left, right, left, right, to take in sights which are foreign to his understanding.
Sumutri has never seen people in such a hurry. Most simply ignore him and rush by when he smiles widely and says, 'Ello!' After clearing customs, they arrive at their gate. Sumutri is sur-prised when they must sit and wait before getting on the plane. Mr. Johnson explains that the planes, passengers, and pilots must all follow a particular schedule. After waiting for half an hour, Sumutri asks, 'Why did we come so early if we were unable to get on? Why didn't we just wait until the plane was ready to go?'
Mr. Johnson tries to explain how everyone is expected to be there early to check in. Sumutri is a patient person. Island life is very laid-back and he has never been rushed in his entire life. But he is confused about this thing called 'scheduling', and is becoming visibly uncomfortable.
'Sumutri. Let me explain a little about how America works. Everything gets done at a certain time.' Sumutri's wrinkled brow shows that he is not clear about time, so Mr. Johnson shows him his watch. 'Every day is divided up into 24 hours. Every hour is divided up into 60 minutes. Every minute is divided into 60 sec-onds.' The wrinkle deepens. 'Why don't you explain to me how you know when something needs to get done,' he continues.
'Well, when the sun comes up, the light wakes me. Then I know it's time for breakfast. I eat quicker than the others so I can take my run around the island. When I get back, the others are usually in the fields working, so I know it's time to plant or pick weeds or harvest. When Father gets hungry, he tells Mother to go and make a meal. When she calls to us, we know it is time to go and eat. We eat for a while and talk about what is left to get done.' Mr. Johnson cracks a smile, and Sumutri continues, 'Af-ter some rest, I go back out with Father to finish the day's chores, while Mother and Sister work around the hut. Then Mother calls us in for dinner. Once we have eaten, the rest of the evening is spent talking or visiting the other families. Some nights, we dance and sing. And sometimes there are village meetings. Then it is time to sleep. That is how I know when things are to be done.'
Mr. Johnson can think of nothing to say.
Finally they are called to board the plane. But first they must stand in line. Sumutri had never even seen line before, but this is the third he has stood in today. 'It seems that this flying involves more standing and waiting than flying, Mr. Johnson.'
'Yes, Sumutri. That's how it works.'
Sumutri stops and stares as he enters the plane and looks down the aisle of the 747. He makes his way with Mr. Johnson's help. As they take their seats, Sumutri by the window and Mr. Johnson next to him, Sumutri leans over and comments sheep-ishly, 'Uh, Mr. Johnson. I don't know much about America and even less about planes. But there is no way this many people in such a big thing could ever fly.'
'It would seem that way, wouldn't it! But the engines are so powerful and the plane is designed so well that it really does fly. There is almost never a problem.'
'Almost never?'
Sumutri and Mr. Johnson make two transfers before they fi-nally land in Atlanta 18 hours later. Sumutri has never felt so tired. And his body has never been so sore. Mr. Johnson explains how they will exit the plane and go to the baggage claim.
'But isn't the luggage right under the plane? Can't we just get out and find it?' inquires Sumutri.
'Nope. That's not the way it works,' Mr. Johnson replies.
When they arrive at the baggage claim, Sumutri wonders about the strange winding contraption that pops out suitcase after suitcase. He makes his way to look up the conveyor and sees where the luggage drops out. He does not understand how it works. He simply stands and stares. Bag after bag. Item after item. Finally, he sees his red duffle coming down the belt. In a clumsy attempt to pull his bag from the carousel, he knocks over the blonde gentleman beside him. 'Sorry, so sorry!' as he reaches out his hand.
Next comes one of Mr. Johnson's two suitcases. They wait for the second. And wait. And wait. Finally, the carousel stops moving. 'Dammit!' utters Mr. Johnson below his breath.
'What is wrong?' Sumutri inquires.
'The airline has lost my luggage.'
'How can they lose it? Did it fall out of the plane?'
'No.' Mr. Johnson cracks a sarcastic grin. 'They just some-times send it to the wrong airport.'
'And did they lose all of these other people's luggage, too?' Sumutri asks as he looks around at more than two dozen un-happy faces.
'I believe so.' Mr. Johnson replies.
'They must not be very good at keeping luggage. How can that be?'
'I don't know. That's just the way it is.'
Sumutri and Mr. Johnson stand in line for the next half hour to file a claim for the missing bag' which ended up in London.
As Sumutri lies in his new bed in his dormitory apartment, he wonders how his family is, how the birds are doing, and what sound the waves are making tonight. He longs for a breath of the salty sea breeze. Finally, exhaustion brings about sleep.
Alarm
The sheets pull clean out of the bed as Sumutri springs to his feet. A sound he has never heard blares loudly in his ears. As shadowy forms begin to take shape in the nearly dark room, he realizes where he is. But he cannot discover where this horrible, terrible noise is coming from. He covers his ears as best he can. It seems to be coming from the wooden stand next to his bed. 'Please stop!' he whispers. Finally, he hears a knock on the door, barely audible over the noise that will not stop. In walks Mr. Johnson, who quickly notices the panic on Sumutri's face. He quickly goes to the nightstand and turns off the alarm clock.
'Thank You, Mr. Johnson. But why is this noise going off in the middle of the night?'
'It's ten o'clock in the morning, Sumutri, and this is your alarm clock.'
'But, sir. It is still dark.'
Mr. Johnson walks over and pulls open the shades, allowing the bright sunlight to enter.
Sumutri looks more confused than ever. 'Why would we keep out the morning sun? That is how my body knows to awaken.'
'It's because we need to get up at the same time every day. And everyone needs an alarm clock to do that.'
'Oh,' replies Sumutri. But the look on his face says he is less than convinced.
'We eat breakfast each morning at 7:00. Then we have a team meeting at 8:00. At 9:00, you meet individually with your trainers and coaches, and then train for two hours. At eleven, you go to the trainers room and get any therapies you need. At noon, the team meets again for lunch. From one to three, you are on your own. From three to five, you work out with your coaches, and at five we have dinner. After dinner you can relax, unless you need to see the trainers or have specialized workouts to do.'
Sumutri replies with a blank stare.
'Well, let's just take this one step at a time,' Mr. Johnson suggests.
Domestication of the Spirit
It is 2:00 by the time Sumutri and Mr. Johnson arrive at the training facilities. As they arrive in the parking lot, Mr. Johnson points to the gigantic indoor facilities. 'This is the world-class indoor training facilities where you will train.'
'Indoors? How does the grass grow?'
Mr. Johnson chuckles. 'There is no grass. You run on a track. And there is also a huge gym to exercise and strengthen your muscles.'
Sumutri is not sure he likes this. He loves the feel of sand, earth, and grass beneath his feet. But he smiles anyway. 'It looks very big and beautiful.'
The pair is met at the front door by a multitude of coaches and trainers, all eager to meet the island boy who runs as fast as the wind. They are led through the facility. 'This is the lunch-room where we eat,' points Mr. Johnson. 'These are the meeting rooms. Here is the gym. Through this door we have a large train-ing pool for you to swim.'
'And here is the track.' Sumutri walks into the largest room he has ever seen. He asks about the striped brown oval below his feet.
'This is where you run,' explains Mr. Johnson.
Sumutri is impressed and amazed by the huge training facil-ity. But he already misses his own track along the black sand beach, through the hillside evergreens, across the cliff-tops, through the village fields, and ending in the plantains. 'This is very nice!' he fibs.
Mr. Johnson continues. 'Today we will only get you stretched out and warmed up and then do some time trials.'
'I will do whatever you say, Mr. Johnson.'
Sumutri finds a four-foot-wide locker area with his name en-graved above. Inside are four brand new pairs of shoes, along with red, white and blue shorts, tank tops and sweats. He changes into his workout gear and laces up the brand new Adi-das which feel as light as feathers on his feet.
Mr. Johnson and the others are waiting as Sumutri steps onto the track. The shoes feel good on his feet, but the track surface feels unnatural and unkind compared to the gentle surfaces at home. 'Take a couple laps to get a feel for the track,' cheers Mr. Johnson.
As his feet hit the surface, left-right, left-right, Sumutri no-tices how nice and even it is. It is easy to run in these shoes and on a real track. He canters around the track, once, twice. He picks up speed. It feels so easy and natural. And he need not keep his eye out for a stray rock or broken branch. Three times, four times. His muscles fill with blood. Faster, faster he glides. He smiles as he passes the coaches five, six times. Finally, Mr. Johnson calls for him to stop. He jogs back to meet the coaches with his typical smile crossing his face.
'Don't wear yourself out before we time you!' warns coach Darby from behind his bushy black mustache.
Mr. Johnson laughs. 'I have seen him run twenty miles without breathing heavy!'
'Twenty miles?' Coach Darby looks confused.
'Yes. I have run twenty miles every day since I was seven,' Sumutri humbly verifies.
Time trial after time trial, the coaches stare at their stop-watches in amazement. The group of onlookers has grown to include nearly every coach, several trainers, and a few of the ath-letes. All are stunned by the ease with which he runs and the fact that he shows no sign of fatigue.
'That's enough for today. Well done!' exclaims coach El-liot, the head track and field coach for team USA.
'But I have not run twenty miles,' Sumutri replies. 'I run twenty miles every day!'
Mr. Johnson puts his arm around his shoulders and gently pulls him aside. 'Sumutri. We are going to train you to be a great middle-distance Olympic runner. We need to train very specifi-cally to those distances. If you run too much, it will hurt your training.' He senses Sumutri's disappointment. 'I understand how important your running is to you. And it is an amazing feat what you have done, running twenty miles every day. But your frame is too large to compete at the longest distances. You are more suited to the middle distances. You have a chance to be-come a great Olympic champion, a hero. Can you imagine how your family and your village would feel if you won a gold medal?'
'I guess you're right,' Sumutri concedes. 'You know much more about running and the Olympics than I ever will. I will do exactly what you and the coaches ask.'
And so begins Sumutri's domestication. Over the next sev-eral months, Sumutri will leave himself behind and become someone else. A new self-image. A new set of rules and values. A new way of life' dictated and determined by the world and people around him.
Passion's Defeat
The alarm goes off' the third time this morning. Before Su-mutri hits the snooze again, he notices the time. It is 5:42. He has but 18 minutes to dress and walk the four blocks to the training facility. So he drags himself out of bed and throws on some sweats.
It has become more and more difficult to get out of bed each morning. It feels like such work to have another day just like yesterday. His times have improved dramatically over the past year and a half. He has even approached world-record times on the indoor track.
Even though he has yet to compete in a single meet, the is-land boy who runs like the wind has become a legend among the track and field elite. Word of his breathtaking speed has reached the rest of the running world.
And yet something is not right. He now runs as fast as he can, not as fast as he feels. The more impressive his numbers become, the more he misses the inner joy his daily run around the island gave him. He misses his family. He misses his village. But most of all, he misses his friends' the sea, the sand, and the cliffs. No matter how hard he tries, he can no longer recall the smell of salt or evergreen. The blazing colors of springtime flowers are but a distant memory. And his legs are beginning to feel tired and heavy.
Nonetheless, he will honor his commitment. If Sumutri is anything, he is true to his word. So he walks his way through the morning traffic and smog, four blocks to the training center.
He feels the eyes upon him as he arrives for breakfast ten minutes late. He hears one of the other athletes whisper, 'Does he think he's special?' as he dishes his eggs and fruit. He sits alone, ever since Mr. Johnson left seven months ago. Mr. John-son is not an official USOC coach. He was only kept on long enough to get Sumutri acclimated. He calls now and then, but Sumutri misses his presence.
It's a heavy training day today. The last heavy day until after the Olympic trials next week. Everyone expects Sumutri to do well. Well enough to qualify for the Olympic team in at least one distance, if not two or three.
'That's your best time ever!' shouts the coach as Sumutri crosses the finish line. 'Two hundredths off the U.S. indoor re-cord!' What they do not know is that Sumutri now runs with anger and frustration. It is this anger that now propels him faster and faster. He no longer glides like a leopard' his feet pound the track as his arms pump wildly.
Success, Perhaps
'Thump-Ump! Thump-Ump! Thump-Ump!' beats his heart against his ribs. Beads of sweat drip from his nose as he readies his feet for the start. 'Ready' Set'' announces the starter. As the gun sounds, Sumutri's feet explode from the starting gate as his legs churn like fine-tuned pistons. As he rounds the first cor-ner, competitor after competitor fades from his peripheral sight. By the time they finish the first lap, he is two lengths ahead of the closest foe. By the end of lap two, his lead grows to 15 feet. But he has more speed, another gear. By the time he crosses the finish line, the rest of the field is nowhere in sight.
He hears a deafening roar arise from the crowd. He looks up to see the letters WR after his time. In his first ever competition, he has set a new world record! He is swarmed by the entire coaching staff. It is beautiful, joyful chaos. But Sumutri hardly cracks a smile. His legs feel heavy and his chest is on fire' much like his first climb up the hillside more than thirteen years ago. Yes, he is proud. And yet he is not. What has he sacrificed for this achievement?
Sumutri makes the Olympic team in two additional dis-tances. As they fly home to Atlanta, he cannot understand why everyone cares so much about his world record. As he rests his head against the tiny airplane pillow, he reflects, 'I run as fast as the wind. That is enough for me!'
Fame
This is the third interview this week. Sumutri is tired of the attention. Even though it has been three months since his world record run, the papers continue to print more and more stories about 'The Swift One,' the island boy who runs faster than any-one in the world. While he has not seen his family in nearly two years, he has seen their pictures in the papers. He has read the news stories reporting how proud they are. Stories written by reporters who have traveled halfway around the world to inter-view them in their small hut on the tiny island. Sumutri does not want this. He only wants to smell the soft scent of salt and ever-green.
But as hard as it is, he has a commitment to honor. And after all, everyone else seems to be very excited about his accom-plishments. So he presses on. Day after day. Week after week. Training. Rehearsing. Visiting with sports psychologists. Eating a programmed diet. Sleeping in a room that still feels nothing like home.
He has worked hard. He has become faster than ever. And the Olympics are three weeks away. More and more coaches. More and more hype. More and more reporters. People on the street call him a hero, and children write letters asking how they can grow up to be just like him. He knows it's all a lie. He knows that this is not his life. But how disappointed everyone would feel if he told the truth! So he finds no choice but to con-tinue.
Tragedy
It is a day like any other. Plans have been drawn up, travel arrangements made. The Olympic Games are less than a week away. This is the last day of heavy training. After this, the regi-men will be cut back to allow Sumutri's strength to stockpile as much as possible.
He races around the final curve, trying to cut another hun-dredth or two off his time. The finish line is just meters ahead. Suddenly, Sumutri crashes to the ground, writhing in pain. He grabs for his right knee as he rolls around on the hard track sur-face. Faces and voices immediately surround him in panicked concern. Trainers race out from the rehab room. Soon, every last soul in the training facility looks down on Sumutri, even Cliff the janitor.
He is placed on the facility's only stretcher and rushed to the training room. Once inside, he is asked many questions.
'What happened?'
'Where does it hurt?'
'Is this tender?'
All Sumutri says is, 'My knee just gave out,' as the trainers push and pull his knee during a multitude of tests.
Hours later, Sumutri sits in the hospital room, surrounded by coaches and trainers. The orthopedist walks in, carrying files full of x-rays, MRI's and reports.
'It's good news. There doesn't appear to be any major dam-age. In fact, I don't see any structural damage at all.' he states to the relief of everyone in the room. 'Let's give it a couple days rest and see how quickly it comes around.' Sumutri spends the next two days in the training room, in and out of the whirlpool, massage after massage, electrodes here and there around his knee.
It is now the third day. Just two days before the team leaves. Coaches and trainers gather as Sumutri prepares to test his knee. He begins by walking, then a slow jog. So far, so good. But as he picks up speed, it is obvious that he is favoring the damaged knee. Before he even approaches normal speed, he stops. He limps back, shaking his head and holding his knee.
'Call coach Elliot. We'll have to send an alternate,' says coach Darby, devastation in his voice. He turns to Sumutri and says simply, 'Tough luck, kid. Better luck next time.'
One by one, each of the trainers, coaches and athletes offer their condolences and a pat on the back. Then they're back to business as usual. For the first time in months, Sumutri is left alone. He slowly limps from the track toward the exit. But before he can get to the long row of doors, a familiar figure appears.
'Mr. Johnson! It is so good to see you!'
'I heard what happened, Sumutri, and I booked a flight out here right away. Will you be ready for the Olympics?'
'Afraid not, sir. My knee just won't hold up.'
'That is such a shame. You worked so hard and have done so well. I'm sure you would have won gold.'
'Mr. Johnson. Could I ask you a question?'
'Anything, son.'
'Since I cannot compete in the Olympics, could you take me home?'
'Of course. We'll get on the very next flight.'
Purpose Restored
'I think that's it, Mr. Johnson! See? Right over there!' Su-mutri points to a tiny speck on the horizon.
'Let me ask the pilot.' Mr. Johnson returns moments later. 'Yes, it is! That is your island.'
The island grows larger and larger, and with it the warm feeling in Sumutri's heart. There has never been a time when he has felt so excited about anything.
As the plane touches down, Sumutri can hardly hold back his excitement. He cannot wait to see Mother, Father and his sister Tuli. He cannot wait to smell the fresh ocean air, the salt and the evergreens. He cannot wait to open a fresh melon and allow the juices to run down his chin.
The waves are choppy today, but Fisher Joe makes the trip in record time. As they approach the shore, a crowd has gathered. In fact, the entire village is there to greet him. As he steps care-fully from the boat, Mother runs down the dock to embrace him. Tears flow down her cheeks as she tells him how proud she is. Father and Sister follow suit.
As Sumutri steps off the dock, a swarm of islanders surround him. Everyone wants to know about America, the world out there. They unveil a rough, hand-painted banner which says, 'Sumutri, Our Hero'. Sumutri objects, 'I am not a hero. I was not able to compete in the Olympics. I was not able to win a gold medal.'
Munuti, the village elder, emerges from the crowd. In his hands, he holds a long beaded necklace. From the necklace hangs a small gold coin. 'Here is your gold medal!' he says with a smile.
As the celebration slowly dissipates, Sumutri, his family, and Mr. Johnson make their way to the humble grass hut. Mr. John-son shares how proud he is of Sumutri and how well he com-peted before the injury. They share stories of Sumutri's experiences. They listen and laugh and cry.
'It is time to go! Two hours 'til dark!' Fisher Joe's voice rings through the door. Mr. Johnson and Sumutri slip outside to say their goodbyes. They shake hands, and Mr. Johnson walks up the path toward the fields and the plantains.
Mr. Johnson stops to take one last look at Sumutri and the grass hut he calls home. As he turns, he sees the figure of a young man, sprinting toward the palm grove by the black sand beach. He chuckles to himself as he thinks, 'He runs as fast as the wind. That is enough for him!' He knows that Sumutri is grinning from ear to ear.
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