Her name is Andrea Hoffman, and she is the finest long distance runner America has to offer. On the track or cross country, 5k, 10k, or marathon, it doesn't matter- the further she goes, the stronger she gets. Her pace picks up mile by mile as the others fade away over time. She's a pacer, a closer, a competitor.

But most of all, she runs...

She is a woman on the border, older than her 17 years, in the dark shadows of the realm of madness known as New York, from the little red town that protects America from the great gray bridge. She was born across that bridge, lived there until she was 10, then she was taken across the river, so that she could be closer to God, closer to better schools, and further away from the madness that was the city. She started going to church, listening to music, and giggling with girls and ogling the boys.

And that's when she took up running...

She always starts slow; she always goofs off with the other girls before the race, she's always last one out of the locker room, always the last to the starting line, smiling all the way, the sun making her hair a brighter shade of blonde than the natural dirty blonde hues she displays. Her warm-ups look more like a dance routine than any standard warm-up exercise. A hazy look comes over her eyes as she winks at her boyfriend watching at the starting line. As she lines up, she hums the latest hit by the blonde of the week. "That's Andrea- always carefree, always unfocused, yet she always wins."

And then she starts running...

It started when she was 5, when she was too young to notice what was happening, but she sensed a change. She was told to play with dolls more, and the world faded to pink and blue. Yet it never really got as far as it did for other girls; she never played soccer, she never heard or uttered the words dyke, nigger, or chink. Then she moved, and things got more complicated. She still saw the twisted steel figure of a proud basketball player, but her parents started to sigh at the rebuilding of the Statue of Liberty. She saw still more TV, and so she grew... and saw Lady Liberty too.

And she ran toward her every day to see what she looked like.

Her coach says she changes when she runs; the longer the race goes, the more focused she gets, and the faster she goes. You can see this on the track: every lap she picks up the pace, split second by split second. Her rhythm becomes more complete, her pace more deliberate and by the end, she looks like she just started. By the end she's almost a different person, a ferocious competitor, a beast with a fiery edge. Always graceful, always focused, always fierce.

And always running...

Her parents named her Andréa, accent on the 2nd syllable, accent mark written in depending on her mood. After the move she started to be called Andrea, with a long E. She didn't even notice at first, but as she matured, she learned the new form of her name like it was hers from birth. In high school she became the giggly one, always not paying attention, always checking out the boys, chatting with the other girls. No one thought she'd have the discipline for running track at the competitive level, but she signed up as soon as they posted the sheet and the coaches realized her talent. It wasn't speed, it wasn't really stamina...

It was that she felt natural running.

She runs alone, training on her normal course, along the river. Her coaches wince at this choice because they think the fumes from the Hudson will mess up her lungs, yet she seems the most comfortable here, gazing back and forth between the road and the skyline of New York, and her focus seems to tighten more every time. For even more challenge sometimes she tackles one of the many uphill streets leading up the cliffs to the top of the Palisades and looks at the skyline from above. With each glance, it looks less glamorous and she picks up the pace and her competitive edge grows sharper. She ends the run at the duel site of Alexander Hamilton. As she catches her breath and takes her water she looks ahead at the figure in the distance, almost seeing the cold steel stare of a woman in shorts and a tank top, looking with fear and longing at the road ahead. "She looks a little like me," she thinks, "angry and focused, always between New York and New Jersey..."

Then she smiles...and stops running.

It's now her senior year and she has been focused on the marathon, winning every race she's entered. She started as a miler as a freshman before going up to the longer distances. She has won distance awards in each of the major competitions and now she readies herself for the longest distance. She smiles at the task, her Valley girl self often even giggling a little at the concept. But her coaches know her cold tactics and that inside may be the best American distance runner there has ever been. They don't understand the split personality, why she corrects the pronunciation of her name after every race but calls herself by that pronunciation at almost all other times. But they don't seem to care...

As long as she keeps running...

She needed a long course to train on, and saw a perfect circle. She ran across the bridge with no second thoughts, no tension, no fear. She takes to the riverside, using the little red lighthouse as her start/finish line and takes off. She blends in with the morning joggers, and the natives see her as almost one of their own. Once someone cut off her stride and she called him a fucking tourist. She stares at the madness as she goes down the street, her agility improving with each dodged pothole. She looks at her halfway point, where she turns back toward the second stretch down the East River and she smiles, almost in the girly self she is when she isn't running. She then picks up down the second stretch as she turns back past the giant Columbia rock, and ends up back at the lighthouse. By now, you wouldn't know that she was a blonde from Jersey. She heads back home to meet her parents for dinner. By the time she eats, she's done her homework, surfed the web, and watched a half hour of television. She giggles when her parents ask how her run was. "Like, if it wasn't for the psychos and the perverts, I may have finished a marathon, but like, there has to be a better course near here."

And tomorrow she runs the same course.

As the last year continues, people see her potential, and she sees Robert, the wide reciever for the football team. She becomes attached like any other woman her age. Meanwhile she is invited for the Easter Games, the first time someone north of Morristown has been invited to represent New Jersey in any sport in the Easter Games.

And as she runs, she remembers when she lived in the insanity that northern New Jersey still was, yet cracking, and then she comes home and embraces the Lord and his greatness- her boyfriend. The experts call her ready for the Olympics.

Yet she just keeps running...

So she gets ready for Baton Rouge, the brithplace of Britney. She is confronted with her college choice. Robert is ready for Stanford, it seems, despite not making it official until May first.

While she runs she stops by Saint Peter's, the small school overlooking the statue: the young basketballer when she runs there, the green beacon when she takes the bus. She laughs as she meets with the track coach. Then she goes home and answers the question on where she's going to go to school with the girlfriend's credo: "Ask him!". Now it's Baton Rouge, and she is ready for the race of her life. The Easter Games are also an Olympic qualifier; the team has 5 members: the winner from each year, plus the youngest from the previous Olympics, creating a balanced squad. The announcer from Channel 1, a dashing young man who all the other girls swoon over, comes and asks Andrea her choice before the race. She giggles and teases and smiles at his tight body before giving her announcement:

"You can ask my Robert where I'm going, (giggle) but my name's Andréa and I have to run first."