Back then, our family lived a life that was both strapped for cash and perpetually expecting to get rich overnight.
Father always wore that quick-drying top with a stretched collar, but when he talked about carbon-plated running shoes and VO2 max, his tone was like he was discussing A-share stocks he'd held for ten years. Every Sunday he would lead the whole family to walk on the synthetic track at Jinyin Lake Park,it was our family's ritual.He would walk with his hands clasped behind his back,watching the figures who sped by on the track,and, with a solemn expression, mentioned the relative training on the Yunnan plateau-- my uncle Runner.My uncle was originally called Rile (Rile),just like that unlucky, oyster-eating Jules (Jules) you've heard of,he was also the family's black sheep.But years ago he changed his name to Runner,Dad says,it was to distance himself from that good-for-nothing older brother,and to project an air of international elite.For our family,Uncle Runner is more than just a relative,he's our family's only hope for reaching "gear freedom".According to his father,Uncle Runner trains extremely hard at high altitude,His full marathon time has settled at 3 hours 05 minutes,he's only one step away from that sacred "sub-3" (running under 3 hours)."As soon as a runner breaks the three-hour mark,," Father would always tell Mother with eyes shining,as if he could already see piles of delivery boxes,"Those sports brands will swarm like flies. At that time,that is, the so-called 'elite runners'.,Top-tier carbon-plated shoes would be sent box after box,,thousand-yuan compression garments would be worn casually,,even those ridiculously expensive energy gels,we could all use them like jelly snacks."To prepare for this glorious moment,the whole family tightened our belts,Mother stopped buying fruit, saving the money to send to Uncle far away to buy imported protein powder; I stopped buying new stationery, because Father said that once Uncle gets into those brands' elite training camps I would also get a pair of top-tier running shoes — an honor so many classmates could only envy.Whenever a delivery guy knocked, Father's heart would race, thinking it was sponsorship from a brand. Although each time it was just cheap kinesiology tape bought on Pinduoduo, he always comforted himself: “Soon, once Uncle runs a sub-3-hour marathon this season, everything will come.”Finally, the opportunity arrived. It was the famous "Wuxi Marathon", a pilgrimage site for domestic runners and an arena where brands sign elite athletes. Father decided to take the whole family to the event, saying it was to cheer for Uncle, but actually he wanted to be first in line to claim the spoils that were about to arrive.The day before the race we went to the marathon expo. Father had specially put on a pair of shoes polished to a shine but with soles long since worn flat, and he walked with his head held high. We were going to look for that legendary "elite recruitment area.""Look, that's the booth!" Father pointed at a huge black booth, which read "Elite assembly — full kit included."My father smoothed down his slightly pill‑fuzzed sports jacket and, with the solemnity of a creditor, walked over. A few young men stood there in bright vests, their calf muscles hard as stone, expressions cold and arrogant."Hello," my father tried to make his voice sound like an insider, "I'm Runner's older brother. My younger brother is going to break three at Wuxi this time. I want to ask, is the contract signed after the race? Can we get a set of gear in advance?"When he said the words "break three," his tone was especially heavy, as if it were a magic phrase to open the gates.However, the young man in charge of recruiting did not give the sycophantic smile we expected. He was busy handing a bottle of water to a tanned elite, and when he heard my father's words he only turned his head slightly and, with the look one uses to size up a poor country relative, scanned my father's outdated running shoes."Break three?" the young man raised an eyebrow; a twitch at the corner of his mouth revealed a faint, sad sarcasm. "Uncle, which year's calendar are you looking at?""What?" my father was stunned, his hand frozen in midair.The young man pointed to an unassuming form behind him, densely filled with selection criteria: "With carbon‑plate shoes this good and courses this flat, grandpas breaking three are everywhere now. Want a full set of gear? That's a 240 (2 hours 40 minutes) thing. Want to get into the team and snag a spot? That threshold was already raised to 250 (2 hours 50 minutes)." "2...250?" Father's voice began to tremble, his face going instantly ashen—looking worse than when he finished his own 5K."Yes, 250." The young man spat out the number mercilessly, as if pronouncing a death sentence. "These days, a sub-3 only counts as an entry-level hobby. It's just 'health-run' level—buy your own shoes."That number landed like a dull slap, shattering our family's fantasies of "equipment freedom." 250 — that's the threshold for a national first-class athlete, a height Uncle Runner will never even see the taillights of in his lifetime.My father stood there stiffly; in that instant he seemed ten years older. He was no longer the partner of an elite runner about to get a sponsor—he had become again the middle-aged man who couldn't afford top-tier running shoes and could only fantasize about them in his dreams."Th...then is there any—" my mother timidly cut in, her voice as small as a mosquito's, "a threshold for getting a pair of socks?""Auntie, the threshold for socks is 255 now." The young man turned away impatiently. "Don't block the elite behind you from collecting their gear."We slunk out of the crowd like beaten dogs.Just then, I spotted a man in an inconspicuous corner of the expo. He was hiding in the shadow of a sponsor's giant billboard, sitting on the ground nibbling the dry bread he’d brought, with a pair of running shoes at his feet whose uppers were already worn through. He looked dark and thin, his face marked by weathering and the fatigue of a long hard-seat journey.That was my uncle Runner, or rather, Rile. He had no halo, no sponsors—only a face caked in dust. He was clutching a crumpled piece of paper: last year’s finish certificate, and he was trying to smooth it out.My father squinted, using the booth light to make out the numbers on the certificate: 3 hours 05 minutes.That was my uncle’s lifetime peak, his badge of pride. But in the face of the recent pronouncement that “250 is the real threshold,” that old certificate looked like a scrap of paper; what it recorded was not glory, but the death sentence for our family’s dream of “free gear.” He was holding that certificate, apparently just turned away from another booth—he hadn’t even gotten a pair of socks to try on.My father recoiled in terror, as if the certificate were a positive test for a contagious disease. He grabbed my mother’s hand and whispered urgently:"Hurry up! Don’t let him see us!""Is that... Runner?" my mother asked hesitantly—he’s holding his result slip, isn’t he..."No! That's Rile! That good-for-nothing Rile!" my father hissed under his breath, his voice full of the angry shame of a broken dream. "That's last year's old calendar! 3:05! What good is that? He can't even earn back a pair of socks now! And he wants us to cover his travel expenses! Come on, go over there and buy those discounted socks—three pairs for ten yuan—and then hurry home!"We hurried off, leaving the scrawny Runner who was still staring blankly at the old certificate behind. My father walked quickly; as we went he took off the Huami watch he'd put on to keep up appearances and tucked it into his pocket.On the way home—no, on the high-speed train—my father stared out at the rushing scenery for a long time without speaking. Finally, he pulled out the pair of socks he'd bought for ten yuan and let out a long sigh: "Sigh, inflation is so bad these days that even a sub-3 marathon has been devalued."
Text: Li Erniu li2niu / Editor:David
Image:Trail Running Big Bang / Visuals: Five-YearTrainee
