

May 8, 2009

That afternoon, Bobbi picked Darren up at school, and as they drove home, Darren chattered excitedly about his day and about the prospect of the coming Christmas vacation. Bobbi steered into the driveway. She and Darren climbed out of the car and entered the house, where they were stopped by the overpowering smell of gas fumes. Darren looked up at his mother, who took a step toward the closed garage door. Then she stopped and stood still for a moment, as if making up her mind about something. She turned to Darren, took his hand, and led him outside and back to the car. She then rushed into the house and called 911.

Before help could arrive, Bobbi drove around the corner and left Darren at a friend's house. As he played with his neighbor, Darren heard the wail of ambulance sirens and saw police cars hurtling by with their lights flashing, but he put them out of his mind and enjoyed the unplanned time with his friend.

It was well past 11 p. m. when Bobbi returned. She came with her father. This must have something to do with Christmas, Darren thought when he saw his grandfather in the car. But nobody spoke as they headed home. Bobbi drove around the block and stopped at the foot of the driveway. She looked at Darren and held his hand. "Your father is gone," she said, and then she started to cry. In his excitement and exhaustion, Darren couldn't comprehend this strange message. But his mother was crying, so Darren started to cry, too.

He would cry only one more time over his father. That would happen four days later at the memorial service held at the Percy Beard Track at the University of Florida. A crowd of 300 people had gathered, mostly members of the running community. Barry's best friend, Marty Liquori, and others delivered eulogies, and then they all walked a symbolic farewell lap around the track. In honor of Barry, the steeple hurdles were all lined up. With Bobbi's permission, Liquori lifted Darren over the final water jump.

Watching the boy, people started to cry, so Darren cried, too.

"This is about my perfect day," Darren Brown says, smiling, shortly after he finishes his morning workout. "Get out of bed, put on a hurt, then grab some breakfast and hang out. This afternoon I'll work the medicine balls, go to the team's track practice at 3, and after that I'll run an easy five."

He moved to Charlottesville, Virginia, last September, pursuing his dreams of a major shoe-endorsement contract, national and world championship meets, and an Olympic berth: Barry, for all his success, fell short of achieving many of these glories. This morning's hill-climbing session is Darren's first hard workout of the fall. Though not as hot as Austin, which Darren left in August after graduating from the University of Texas, it's warm enough in Charlottesville to run shirtless, and his chest is slick with sweat.

He has inherited his father's hunger for the sport. He has also inherited Barry's disarming smile, his warm friendly eyes, and his clean, metronomic stride. The resemblance is so striking, and the impact of Barry's life and death so lasting, that occasionally one of the graying children of the first running boom will mistakenly call Darren by his father's name.

At times, the energy and conviction in the young runner's voice can remind an aging boomer of the passion his father once had for the sport. "In terms of setting a standard for a runner to shoot for, I can't think of anybody better than Barry," Darren says, stopping along the way to towel off. "Name me another American runner who competed at such a high level, over so long a time span, and in such a wide variety of events. He had tremendous endurance and a near-perfect sense of pace. He just couldn't find that extra gear." Darren slows down for a moment, considering the ways that he's a different—and perhaps better—runner than his father. Finally, he says, "I think I can develop that extra gear."