Dave Casler
PO Box 98
Ridgway, Colorado 81432
Young Adult Novels by Dave Casler...
I've been told by publisher after publisher that there's no market for Young Adult novels. I think they're wrong! So I'm putting my novels on-line for you. Forget the publisher! Read to your heart's content--it's free! And, I'd like to hear from you, too! Contact Page.
You're reading About Phillip. Be sure to check out About Dan here.
Phillip is a computer nerd who suddenly discovers a liking for track. Everything would be fine except for his father.
About Series Home
About the About Series
Index to All Chapters
Here are all the chapters, disguised as asterisks. Hover your mouse over an asterisk to see the title of the chapter. Click on the asterisk to go straight to that chapter.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
(About Phillip Home) (Last) (Next)
Phillip Tries Track
BLAM!
The blast from the starter’s gun ricocheted through Phillip’s head and made him stumble. Dazed, he saw the other runners ten feet down the track before he scrambled and pushed himself into gear. This was his first track meet—he’d never even attended one before—and he had a long race to run. Eight laps—3200 meters.
What on earth was he doing on the track with all these big guys? He wasn’t a jock. He’d never run with a group—always by himself. This was a wildly new experience: he couldn’t keep himself from looking around with a wild grin on his face. It was just like he’d imagined: crowds around the track, lots of screaming, a beautiful blue sky. He wore a real Park jersey. This was cool. He settled into what he thought would be a comfortable pace but the other three runners in his heat started pulling ahead. He pushed his glasses back up his sweaty nose and dug in. So there was work involved, after all.
There’s no stadium worthy of the name at Park High School in Boulder, Colorado, just a track surrounding the football practice field. Parents, fans and athletes gathered up close to the track in wildly colorful disarray. Some brought lawn chairs. Toddlers and elementary-age kids—siblings of the Parkies—had to be chased off the track. Many parents wore red to mirror the school color in which the Park athletes were clad. The Anderson team wore green. Today’s meet was just between the two schools and therefore unofficial, a season-starter to help the athletes get used to competition.
Phillip thought he should run faster. Just because this was his first race, he didn’t need to be last. The undersized sophomore fixed his concentration on the runner ahead of him. His lungs, leg, arms, feet and hands were a team from several years of solitary running. He poured it on—but remembered Coach Johnson said he had to pace himself. How much could he give and last six more laps? He let his stride lengthen. He loved the track—brand new—much springier than the concrete he used for his daily runs. Did he have the right shoes?
He recognized only a few students in the crowd. This wasn’t the same crowd that showed up for computer class. Grant Haven, his faithful fellow computer nerd, was yelling and snapping pictures as Phillip flew by. Dan Cook stood next to the finish line, less animated than Grant. Dan was an acquaintance from church, a junior and a year older. And a big-deal soccer jock. Of course, thought Phillip. Dan was used to competition—that’s why he looked so nonchalant. Standing next to Dan was his weird fellow soccer player, Peter Fawkes. Dan and Peter had put him up to running track—trapped him into it, really. Practices had been fun, but they hadn’t prepared him for real competition.
And standing next to Dan and Peter was Phillip’s father, Lance Maceda. Phillip did a double take and swore, his single word lost in his labored breath. He’d specifically told his father not to come. Was he here just to lecture him when he lost? This was only his first meet—why embarrass him now?
Phillip tore his gaze away and concentrated on the runner ahead of him. Four laps to go. He was now even with number three, a fellow Parkie. He pressed on. Breathing. Rhythm. Pace. Breathing. Rhythm. Pace. Try harder! Reach for more! Where were his reserves? Running on the Boulder Creek Path was never anything like this!
Now he was third. Number two, an Anderson runner, was huffing just ahead of him as they went into lap six. Form, Phillip, form! He pulled ahead of the Anderson runner on the back stretch and became conscious of the roar of the crowd. Two laps to go and number one—another Anderson runner—was thirty feet ahead. Phillip could smell his sweat and heard the crowd getting more excited. Were they shouting his name? Phillip reached deep for more reserves. Could he catch him? Twenty-five feet. Twenty. Into the last lap. Still twenty feet. Phillip saw stars dart across the sky. His legs were rubber. His throat was a hot coal. More, Phillip, more! Twenty feet. Twenty five. Still twenty- five. Thirty. Number one hit the tape. Phillip stumbled across the finish line, second in the heat, with the other Anderson runner hard on his heels.
He slowed to a walk as the crowd surged onto the track. The noise made his head hurt. He saw his father jump onto the track in front of him.