Running In Place
We're writing fiction!
Hi friends,
I wrote some fiction for this newsletter. While I’ve always enjoyed reading fiction, I haven’t given writing it an honest go before. It was a difficult and, at times, awkward process. Interestingly, there’s a parallel between this story and my experience writing it. In today’s world, we compare ourselves to others constantly—social media makes this almost inevitable, even if only subconsciously.
I nearly gave up on this piece a few times. Then I reminded myself of its message.
Would love your feedback.
- G
For Sutherland, one of the few beautiful things left in his life were the daily runs on the West Side Highway. And yet, even that beauty was beginning to fade into anguish.
By early April, the weather was finally warm enough for Sutherland to feel justified in popping his top once he hit “the highway.” Winter had clung to the city like damp clothes, dragging itself deeper into the calendar than any he remembered in his five years in New York. The cold always bummed him out, as it did every New Yorker—or so they said. He liked to blame it on not being able to run outside. The treadmill bored him. As did most things these days.
As the seasons turned a corner, so too did Sutherland, taking a hard right on West 22nd Street, as always, and entering the second mile of what would become his typical six-mile escapade. He’d run cross country in college, and the miles often came easy. Muscle memory kicked in, and the runner’s high washed over him like the first pint of the day on Saturdays with the boys.
He ran with precision. Eyes locked fifteen feet ahead, chin level, jaw loose. His neck stayed relaxed, free from the tension it often gathered during long hours at his Columbus Circle office. Shoulders swung in sync with his arms, elbows neatly bent at ninety degrees, hands loose—especially the one not clutching his oversized iPhone 16 Max, a ridiculous device to run with, he knew. His stride was springy, his posture proud. One of the few times he still carried himself that way.
By nature of this rehearsed form, Sutherland—so called because there were too many Stevens in the group—was quick to pick off the runners ahead of him. Yet even as he passed others, a pang lingered in his chest from that morning. He’d woken hungover and alone, despite being certain that Chelsea, the graphic designer from the label downstairs, would be beside him. Had he really spent all two hours of their third date at Dante talking only about himself? He hadn’t thought so. But something in her tone when she’d asked, at the end of the night, “Was there anything you wanted to ask me?” had rewound through his head all day.
He liked her. That much was becoming clearer with every mile. So he picked up his pace and brushed off the thought. It was easier that way. He was only thirty-one—still young, at least for a guy with money in New York. Besides, he could still run.
By May, the Hudson breeze had curdled into a humid haze, and Sutherland was deep in another down quarter at work. Chelsea still hadn’t texted. So he doubled down, increasing his mileage and shaving thirty-five seconds off his average pace. The numbers consoled him. Proof he still had an edge. He checked Strava, scrolling to confirm he was still faster than most. Better, at something.
Then something peculiar began to happen. Only after the third time did he decide to say something aloud. That Thursday at the beer hall, he stared up at the exposed rafters while his boys recounted FanDuel winnings and losses. Then, without warning, he blurted,
“Why do they keep passing me?”
The table went quiet. Then a wave of chuckles rolled in. Baptiste tilted his head. “What are you talking about, bro? You alright?”
“No. Not really.” Sutherland took a breath. “You guys know how I run the West Side Highway?”
Everyone nodded condescendingly. It was one of the few things they all, in fact, knew about him.
“Well, I don’t know what the fuck is going on. My pace is up, my heart rate’s down—my Whoop says I’m killing it. But I keep getting passed. Like, almost every time I run lately, someone just flies by me like I’m nothing. Not just one guy either. It’s been a few. I even recognize them now. It’s like they’re… tracking me.”
“Jesus,” Mike muttered through stoned, slitted eyes, his vape pen still releasing wisps of smoke from its perch under his long sleeve. “The Golden God’s spiraling.”
“I’m serious,” Sutherland said, louder than intended. “I’ve always been the one who passes people. Not the other way around.”
He paused. Saying it aloud made it worse. “Ever since Chelsea…” He stopped, chugged the rest of his Hazy IPA, slapped a twenty on the table, and left.
In the weeks that followed, the runners who had been passing him took on mythic proportions. He began to think of them as wolves—silent, swift, always just behind him. They weren’t merely running past; they were hunting him. Studying his gait. Waiting for the perfect moment of humiliation. They’d appear without warning, breeze by, and vanish into the blur ahead. He hated them. Feared them. Sometimes, he was sure Chelsea was out with one of them now, laughing at his expense.
Sutherland started running angry. Chasing ghosts. Each run became a proving ground. His light, springy form grew heavy; legs thudded against the pavement with punishing force. Pain climbed his calves, then his hamstrings. He ignored it. He had to be ready. They could come at any moment.
Finally, the day came.
He was on his way home, around mile five, still as tense as when he began. As he approached Pier 57, the families on the grassy patches of the West Side Highway blurred in his vision. He thought he heard someone call his name from a bench but didn’t break stride to check.
Then he saw them. Two of them. The wolves. Running in tandem, lean and focused. Swift, pushing each other to speeds they couldn’t reach alone. They were ahead of him this time. For once, he had the chance to be the hunter.
Sutherland didn’t hesitate.
Instead of quickening, he lengthened his stride, covering more ground. Emboldened, he pushed until his lungs burned and the taste of blood coated his mouth. The metallic tang reminded him of race days in college and made him feel young, strong. His mind flickered with images—his boss shaking his head, Chelsea turning away, those runners disappearing into the horizon.
Not today.
He sidestepped a stroller, then a jogger. The wolves were within reach. He locked onto their black sleeveless shirts and imagined himself as the F1 driver he followed religiously on Instagram. The final lap, the beautiful girl in his corner. He surged forward, willing his body past its edge. As he drew level, he turned to see their faces. To show them his.
But what they saw wasn’t dominance. It was desperation.
A violent snap, deep in the back of his thigh, like a live wire splitting under flesh. His leg seized, crumpling beneath him. He let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-growl, collapsing onto the asphalt with all the grace of a marionette whose strings had been cut. He clutched the back of his leg, fingers clawing the muscle as if he could will it to release. A hot, twisting pain radiated down to his calf and up into his hip, making him lightheaded. It was no use. His hamstring had betrayed him.
Through the pain, he heard a voice: “Oh my god, are you okay?”
He looked up, squinting against the sun. Chelsea, crouched beside him. Hair tied back, sunglasses pushed up. She offered her hand.
He hesitated, then took it. She helped him upright, handed him a water bottle.
“Who were you chasing, Steven?” Chelsea asked. “You were really going for it.”
Embarrassed, he replied softly, “Those guys in the black tanks. They’ve passed me on a few runs, so I wanted to get them back.”
“The CrossFit guys?” she said, suppressing a laugh.
Sutherland, still confused, said nothing.
“They work out at a CrossFit gym inside Pier 57. One of them used to date my roommate. They run a few sprints on the West Side Highway to finish their workout.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I thought you were more of a long-distance guy. What are you doing sprinting with them?”
“You mean… they’re just out here doing a short sprint?”
She nodded.
Sutherland followed her gaze to the pier. The two men leaned on the railing, panting and laughing, their run already a memory. A gull wheeled overhead, its cry sharp against the soft slap of the river against the pilings.
His hamstring throbbed, that same hot, twisting ache he’d felt when it first went, demanding all his attention. He should have been wincing, thinking about the long walk home, the injury, the stupidity of chasing them in the first place.
Instead, he traced the route he’d covered in his mind, the long miles behind him, the steady beat of his shoes on the pavement, the sun pressing warm against his shoulders.
Sprinters. That’s all they were.
He let out a low chuckle that made Chelsea tilt her head.
“What’s funny?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, eyes drifting past her toward the glittering water, the grin still on his face.