Wainscoting and No Bottom Chiclets

James sat hunched in the half-lit break room of The Southern Cross, a small, worn-out Australian magazine clinging to life like a dinghy in a storm. The coffee machine sputtered. He watched a fly navigate the dust-rimmed windowpane. His editor, Margaret, had just handed him what she called a “soft feature” to escape the doldrums of budget cuts and political scandals.

“You’re going to Portland, Oregon,” she said. “Cover a local race. Cross country. There’s a guy running it—Henry Rono. Used to be big in the ‘70s. You know, world records and all that. Washington State University. Fell hard. Alcohol. Now he’s back.”

James raised an eyebrow. “You want me to fly across the Pacific for a five-mile race?”

Margaret nodded. “It’s a story about glory lost and maybe regained. You still know how to write those, don’t you?”

James didn’t answer. He hadn’t written anything meaningful in years.

Portland, Oregon

It was a gray February when James arrived in Portland. The clouds hung low like a ceiling built too close to the ground. Trees still bare from winter lined the muddy trails of Forest Park, where the race was to take place. James dragged his suitcase into a cheap motel near Northwest 23rd and hung his press badge on the bedpost. The city smelled like wet pine and old promises.

The race was two days away.

He began digging.

Henry Rono had been a name—no, a legend—in the world of distance running. In 1978, he had shattered four world records in just 81 days: the 10,000 meters, 5,000 meters, 3,000 meters steeplechase, and 3,000 meters flat. A Kenyan running for Washington State University, Rono had been a golden figure, both for African athletics and collegiate distance running in the U.S.

But the story after the peak was dark.

A promising Olympic career derailed by Kenya’s boycott of the 1976 and 1980 Games. Disillusionment. Isolation. Alcohol. Arrests. A liver wrecked and a reputation eroded by public intoxication charges and missed coaching jobs. A once godlike figure reduced to a cautionary tale.

And now, he was here—in Portland—for a five-mile amateur race. Kenyans typically don’t know how old they are, but Henry must be at least late 30s. A recovering alcoholic. Running, again.

Interview

James found Henry at a modest community center on the outskirts of the city. He was thinner than the photos from the ’70s—sinewy and sunken, like someone who had outpaced time but not untouched by it. His voice was soft, his handshake firm.

They sat in folding chairs by a vending machine.

“You came from Australia?” Henry asked.

“Yeah,” James said, scribbling notes on a pad. “I write for a magazine most people don’t read.”

Henry chuckled. “And you came for me? I hope they’re paying you.”

“They’re barely paying anyone.”

There was silence for a moment. James didn’t want to rush.

“So why this race?” he finally asked.

Henry looked out the window. Rain dripped from the gutters.

“I lost myself for a long time,” he said. “I thought I could outrun it all. The records, the pain. But addiction… that’s a race you don’t win. You just run it every day.”

“And now?”

“I want to finish something. That’s all. Five miles is nothing. But it’s something.”

The Night Before the Race

James walked through downtown Portland, passing cafes and bookstores, thinking about the strange bond forming between him and Rono. Both men were ghosts of something better. James had once won awards for his reporting in Sydney—his profile of a wrongly accused Aboriginal teenager had sparked a government inquiry. But the fire had gone out. Alcohol had found him too, though in a quieter, more insidious way. A beer with lunch, a scotch with dinner, a bottle with regret.

He stopped at a pub. Looked at the sign.

He didn’t go in.

Race Day

Forest Park was slick with rain. Mud clung to the trail in clumps. Runners gathered—young and old, elite and recreational. Henry wore an old Washington State singlet. His bib number fluttered in the wind. James stood off to the side, voice recorder in his coat pocket.

A whistle blew. The runners surged forward.

Henry ran with short, deliberate strides. No longer graceful but determined. His breath came ragged. By the second mile, he was near the back. But his face—his face was calm.

Kenyans typically don’t know how old they are. But Henry must be at least late 30s. He moved like someone who had lived many lives, but still had something to prove.

James followed the course, cutting through the woods for vantage points. At the fourth mile, Henry stumbled but caught himself. Another runner patted his back. They pressed on.

The fifth mile came slowly, like the end of a long winter.

As Henry crossed the finish line, there was no fanfare, no applause. Just a few people clapping and the muffled sound of timers clicking. He bent forward, hands on knees, then stood and looked at James.

“I didn’t stop,” he said, gasping. “That’s what matters.”

James nodded. “Yes. It does.”

Return to Canberra

Back in his flat in Canberra, James wrote the story. The words came like rain—steady, cleansing. He called it The Fifth Mile. He didn’t write about just the race. He wrote about redemption, aging, humility. About how it’s not the medals or the records that define a man, but what he does when no one’s watching.

When it published, it went viral. Margaret called him with tears in her voice. NPR wanted a segment. A small publisher asked about expanding it into a book.

But James didn’t care about the noise.

He retreated back to his flat in Canberra, the one with the old wainscoting, thinking about Henry’s missing bottom teeth—the bottom two that they knock out in case you get lockjaw and your tribe.