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All eyes focus on the London Marathon. Part 11. BY PAUL CHRISTMAN

Chapter 30

© Tes 29, please,” the woman with copper-coloured hair and an impassive

face said just as Warren walked into a green grocers in Highgate. His morning had been leisurely spent reading the Guardian over two cups of coffee in the tea room above a High Street coffee shop. There the students from the Highgate School often japed about in their navy-blue jackets, and he had gone to the tea room specifically for the purpose of engaging one of the precocious, briefcase-laden “enfants terribles” in a chess game, which he subsequently lost by prematurely advancing his queen.

“That’s 74, please,” the woman said, finishing the quick shuffling of a mixture of not altogether attractive tomatoes into a brown sack, flipping it at the corners: which effort, to some eyes—due to such overripe fruits’ relatively unrelated resemblance to those red beauties skillfully displayed in front of the counter—might have been construed as legerdemain.

“That’s 32, please,” the woman said while performing a dextrous twirling of another sack of apples: these having been weighed at the far scale, where some would say the gaunt man making the purchase would have had a less than adequate view of this mildly hasty arrangement. Warren could see that the man, whom he suddenly realized he had seen somewhere out on the heaths, recognized a bit of these subtle scams, but being in a hurry, was not about to be bothered with a confrontation.

“That’s 57, please,” she continued on a bag of parsnips while Warren, his hands one on top of the other in front of his loins, stood watching behind a diminutive woman in wide-brimmed blue terry-cloth hat and matching coat, her shopping-onwheels pulled up against her. “That’s one pound twelve, please,” came the voice

as a newspaper-wrapped container of hot house strawberries was dropped into the male “victim’s” plastic shopping bag. “Anything e/se, please?”

“That’ll do.”

“That’s three pounds, forty-four, please,” the woman enunciated with finality, turning to the patiently queuing woman in terry cloth. “Yes, please?” solicited the shopkeeper while awaiting the gentleman’s production of the correct change. Far too many sacks of spoiled plums, broken tomatoes, and mouldy cauliflowers had been taken home by Warren, not to mention the countless overcharges paid through faulty additions, for him to let this opportunity slip through his grasp.

He tugged on the man’s sweater sleeve. “That’s 3.04,” was mentioned softly but audibly to the consternation of the woman in apron.

“Sorry?” the man asked, plaintively looking back and forth between Warren and the shopkeeper.

“That’s 3.44, please,” the woman peremtorily repeated with moderately firm conviction, visually ignoring Warren.

“There were the carrots at 29p,” Warren began in stentorian voice with eyebrows raised. Others in the shop set down the variety of vegetables they were fingering: “the tomatoes—bruised though they may have been—at 74p; the apples—misweighed though they might have been—at 32p; the parsnips skillfully packaged at 57p; and the modestly priced strawberries at one pound twelve pee.”

A pin dropping, were it to have occurred, might have been audible.

“So… inasmuch as we must assume that this gentleman is using the same form of addition as this kind woman,” he directed first at the perplexed shopper, and then at the shopkeeper, “we can then deduce that in her pattern of normally skillful mathematical additions, our dear lady has inadvertently misread a scale figure for the gentleman’s purchase total; or else in her attempts to service her customers with dispatch—albeit difficult to believe—has made—”; these last two words rising in inflection, he paused briefly to inhale and glance at the ceiling; “__a mis-cal-cu-/a-tion.” Certain glances were exchanged. “Madam?”

“The gentleman does seem to have made a point,” the woman replied through gritted teeth without so much as a glance at Warren. “For some reason I believe I thought the first figure to be 69 rather than 29. I’m so sorry.”

Others in the shop began fingering the vegetables again.

“T see,” nodded the man softly before then proffering the correct amount.

“Thank you,” she said, taking his money. “Yes, please, madam?”

“You’ve dune me a true sairvice,” the thin fellow told Warren as they walked toward Highgate West Hill. “That bleedin’ highwaywoman!” A little further on, after several more mutterings over the woman, he extended his hand to Warren. “The name’s Watson Doyle.”

“Warren Fowles. Haven’t I seen you out and about on the heaths?”

“Aye. Every day. And you as wail?”

“Well, I’m out there from time to time trying to get in some training for the Greater London Marathon,” Warren answered, pulling out of his jacket one of three bananas he had forgotten to pay for on his way out of the store—a modest charge he felt commensurate to the shopkeeper’s dexterity. “Care for a banana?”

Doyle laughed. “No, thank you. Might put th’ buggers straight, though, if there wair more like you.” He lapsed into thought for several moments. “How many miles a week have you been roonin’ fair the last three months, then, laddie?”

“Oh, I should say somewhere between 20 and 50, with the last couple of weeks having been 45 and 48.”

“And what time do you hope to roon, then?”

“Well, I think I can run under 2:35.”

“Aye, and what kind of time do you run a mile in?”

“Gee, I wouldn’t have a clue—I suppose about 4:30.”

“Aye, well you may be just a wee bit short of miles fair a time like 2:35, but then again maybe you can do it. You’ve got the speed fair it alright, but you might come up a bit short after aboot 18-20 miles.” It was apparent the Scotsman was skeptical, but with his speed Warren still felt confident the goal was attainable.

“I know the course is basically flat, and I think I can put it into gear until about 20 and then just gut it out.”

“Six miles is a long way to gut out, laddie. You may be able t’ do it, but if I wair you, I’d take it slooly ovair th’ fairst half—have you roon a marathon before?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you know they say the race doesna start until 20 miles, and I reckon that’s aboot right. You can be roonin’ quite comfortably aroond 17 or 18 miles, and then all of a sudden find yairself totally knackered. Patience is the lesson to be lairned. Even the fittest of men have gone doon in those last 10 kilometairs. I’ve been doin’ aboot 150 miles pair week and I’m hopin’ to break 2:30, but at my age,” he laughed, “you feel privileged to have the use of yair laigs.”

“Thanks for your advice, then,” Warren said before angling off to Hampstead Lane to catch the bus.

“Yai’re entirely welcome,” the Scotsman called after him. “Thank you fair savin’ me half a quid. And gude luck to you at the Greater London.”

That afternoon Warren pitched his sweatshirt into a corner beside his bed. He felt very tired after just having done a hard nine round the heaths in a drizzle. With two days to go until the marathon he still didn’t feel quite rested, but having done short easy runs for the whole week, decided to run one more hard one to test his fitness. “I’m going to lay off the sauce until the race,” he told himself aloud.

For the last several weeks many of his nights had been spent in Heath’s, the Nag’s Head, or various other smoky haunts of Hampstead with little forethought

regarding the rest and detoxification needed to be adequately prepared for his upcoming task. Many of his days were passed in hazes from previous nights of drinking, when he would sit by the hour reading or penning the starts of poems on scraps of paper, only to wad them up and hurl them like basketballs into the wastebasket.

The latest plan involved running the marathon, then forgetting running for a while to knuckle down on the poetry. Warren felt quite confident of being able to knock out some good poems without the running hanging over his head. Well, that is if he could spend fewer of his days with the French lady who sold gems, or less evenings with the nocturnal German au pair.

That evening in The Freemason Arms, after his third bottle of Sam Smith’s, he attempted to phone Solian, but she wasn’t at home. “Damn that girl!” he muttered aloud. “I’m going to motor by her in the Greater London like she’s got wooden legs!”

Chapter 31

The scents and sounds from the oak logs smoldering in the huge hearth and the softly gurgling tributary of the spring-fed Fleet River gave the cave a very warm feeling. The runner sat leaning on one elbow in his giant chair, facing the fire. Mentally he was in a turmoil: all signs were pointing toward the marathon. If he ran it he would be: partially appeasing his guilt over the dead Christopher Carlson by wearing his number; pleasing Chris’ former girlfriend with whom he had made love; humbling the arrogant San Franciscan; feeling once again the thrill of competition; and experiencing the setting of a world record. But what would it all lead to? The press would ferret him out; hound him incessantly. People would try to get him for interview shows, etc., etc. And none of these problems even came close to what he would have to deal with over question of his identity.

His gaze lowered to the logo on the makeshift ottoman upon which his feet were propped: Washington State. What a laugh. They all thought the runner had died in a car crash. Maybe he had.

But then again, maybe he hadn’t. Maybe there had been another car crash in the Pacific Northwest. For there was the other famous runner who had been missing for years.

For a moment the runner held his head in his hands. Why couldn’t he remember? And how did he know so much about the two famous American runners?

Was he an English hitchhiker who went off to find his heroes; was he the famous American runner everyone thought dead; was he the famous runner missing for years? Or was the whole thing just a bad dream, and if so, how did his face get the way it is? The whole story was so incredible, telling it to anyone would just sound preposterous.

He shook his head and stared into the mesmerizing flames, letting his thoughts drift back to the haze of that horrific evening. The recreation of that whole distant nightmare somehow always seemed surreal and vague. He just couldn’t remember if he had actually been to a post-race party, or for that matter even a race, or if he had merely been told about it by his companion that night.

Then thoughts of the five years of training up in the mountains of Colorado swarmed through his head. Was he the hitchhiker whose parents were dead, who had no brothers or sisters, who had come from England to drop out in the mountains and train, and who had lost his English accent by hearing nothing but American television and Colorado mountain people for that period? Had he hitchhiked to the Pacific Northwest to meet his idols? Or was he one of those famous runners? Why can’t I remember?

He did remember the screeching of tires and the lights going out; the waking up in some bushes in the middle of the night, with blood caked upon his face; and the finding of a Washington State athletic bag, and a jacket with an English passport in it, nearby. When he had put on the jacket it had fit fairly well. Was the passport his? His face was so badly scarred he couldn’t tell. He also remembered wandering onto a road and being picked up by a German doctor who had just moved to a farm outside of some Pacific Northwest town. Eugene? Spokane? Tacoma? Why can’t I remember!

The name of the bar that night? Had he been there earlier that evening to ask of one of the famous runner’s whereabouts, or had the hitchhiker told him that? Think. Think. He remembered convincing the doctor not to call the police or take him to the hospital because of his having overstayed his visa, and convincing him his American accent came from his five years in Colorado. He also recalled the doctor driving him to some airport with bandages still on his face, on the condition he look up Basil Armathwaite, a philanthropist and former runner he had once befriended at a Cambridge colloquium. His airline ticket showed the city of departure to be Portland, but so what? And with enough digging back in the Pacific Northwest, he could probably unearth his identity, but then what about all the problems which would arise if he did find out!

Was he William Westwood of Nottingham, England? Or was he one of two famous American runners everyone thought dead or missing? He had vague recollections of crowds cheering . . . something about a high school record . . . 8:40 … or 8:41… Were they all just dreams? Was he a Pacific Northwest legend, or was he an eccentric English harrier who had trained in the mountains of Colorado for five years, having had contact only with hippies and miners? Was his amnesia permanent, or would the whole nightmare eventually return to clarity in his mind?

Yet he was alive, scarred but well, with no friends, sitting in a cave under Highgate. Who would believe the whole outrageous odyssey? He doubted if anyone would ever come looking for him, either, because the doctor was the only person

in the Pacific Northwest who knew of his existence, and the old gent probably considered the case closed since he had checked with the local police and found no one missing from any accident scene.

His musings faded back to consideration of the upcoming Greater London Marathon. Although everything indicated he should run it, each time the same conclusion solidified itself in his mind. He couldn’t do it. He wanted the image of the good-looking runner, whoever he might be, to remain fixed in people’s minds. For even though working with weights had improved his chest dramatically, there was nothing he could do about his face. Why should his freak-like appearance be foisted upon them? Why should he run the race, then allow himself to be tormented by stares, questions, provocations, and ultimately challenges from every Tom, Dick and Harry who thought Rob de Castella, Alberto Salazar, or Geoff Smith were the ones to beat?

He leapt to his feet to go to the refrigerator to get some yoghurt. Nope, he thought to himself. J can’t do it. Someone else can have all the glory. My competitive days are through. I might as well be dead!

Chapter 32

3:30 a.m. Crikey, I’m nervous, Solian thought, having lifted her head from the pillow to look at the clock. She had set the alarm clock for 6:00 A.M., in order to be able to make the Heathgate bus chartered to take club members to the start of the marathon, but her night was continuing to be a relatively sleepless one. She knew such restlessness was common for most athletes on nights before big races; yet it was always the same: the body was beginning to psyche itself up for the big one.

After trying umpteen positions in an attempt to get back to sleep, yet still lying there with eyes wide open, Solian finally decided to get up at 4:30 a.m. Still dressed in her UCLA sweatshirt, sweatpants, and socks she had worn to bed, she turned the light on, plopped down in a chair, and began to go over her training diary to reassure herself. She knew she had done the training, but going over the proof somehow always bolstered her. Her nerves began to calm. She convinced herself the race was going to go alright.

An hour and a half later she showered and began to dress herself like a priest donning vestments. The black-and-white nylon Heathgate singlet slid smoothly down over her bra and skin. Moments later she adjusted her matching black running shorts and gazed down at her firm legs. The miles are there. You’ ve just got to control your pacing, she told herself. Next came the flannel-lined track suit. Such security. She reached for the jar of vaseline and applied some to the tops of her toes, the bottoms of certain ones prone to blistering, then slid her feet into her socks and racing shoes. Carefully each shoe was tied: not too loose; but not

too tight. An extra bit of pressure, or lack of same, could make quite a difference when your feet were going to strike pavement more than 30,000 times in one race. Solian stood up, then remembered the final touch: affixing Sarah’s good luck charm onto her singlet.

She was ready.

Then, in an optimistic afterthought that there could possibly be a post-race television interview, Solian decided to do something she had told herself she wasn’t going to do: she put on some eye makeup and a trace of light-coloured lipstick.

At each pickup point nervous Heathgate runners scampered aboard the bus proceeding south. The day they had all awaited had finally arrived. No more waiting; no more training—now each faced the 26.2-mile challenge. Yet within fifteen minutes pre-race nerves were temporarily mitigated by extensive waffling, the decibel level gradually increasing to almost that of a menagerie. Veterans equivocated over nagging injuries, younger runners prevaricated about preparatory mileage, sub-three marathoners talked of “going out slowly,” and the ultra-fit and talented rabbited solemnly on “staying with the leaders as long as possible.” Solian could feel the excitement of anticipation among the group of wiry creatures heading to Greenwich to begin their 42-kilometer tests.

A Scottish military band was striking up song after song, as the thousands of runners walked and jogged along Greenwich Park’s avenue of trees. They mingled near the tea tent; entered and exited the canvas-shrouded urinal trough area like streams of ants; affixed numbers with nervous fingers; put last-minute petroleum jelly under arms and between thighs; rubbed ointments and massaged liniments into legs; relieved themselves behind trees and amidst bushes; queued in front of porta-loos while shifting from one leg to the other and trying to look nonchalant; ran series of short striders; jogged to buses to divest themselves of track suits; and while secreting adrenalin with anxious faces and pre-race feelings of fatigue and doubt, kept moving in thousands of directions in the grey March morning light.

The day before, Solian had picked up her race number at marathon headquarters. Having known of her racing abilities for shorter distances but not having a clue as to how she might fare in a marathon, the race directors had issued her number 19F. Carefully pinning it on her vest with four safety pins, she re-zipped up her track suit and began to dance around in the crisp foggy air.

“T’ve been looking for you everywhere,” a voice from behind her suddenly said. It was Thompson Marsden, a member of the New Zealand Athletic Governing Body (NZAGB), and he was holding some black cloth in one hand. “Thought you might like to wear this today,” he said, extending the folded material toward Solian.

She grasped it with one hand and let the cloth tumble open into its full size. An enormous smile stole across her face.

SI & @

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“We had to send Diana and Christa over to last week’s world cross-country champs, anyway, so we were pleased when they agreed to represent New Zealand in the marathon. We had hoped you might join them and represent us as a team.”

“Oh… yes… well, thank you very much, Mr. Marsden,” she replied, thinking perhaps he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. For there dangling in her one hand was the object of a lifelong ambition—an emblem at one point almost abandoned and yet respected around the world as a symbol of athletic excellence: a black singlet with a small silver fern on it.

“Well, go on then—go put it on,” he smiled. “The board wanted you to know they are aware of your representation of New Zealand through your accomplishments in Europe, and they will be quite disappointed if you decline. Oh, and I should mention that Laura and Gwen are here to watch since they are going to run in Boston, and both of them asked me to wish you luck if they didn’t see you.”

Solian’s legs suddenly felt quite light as she strode toward the Heathgate bus to make the change. She knew some runners would think her silly, but tears came into her eyes as she slipped the black cloth on in a back seat of the empty bus. Just for a moment, all alone, she swelled with pride. “Right, then,” she said, jumping to her feet. Fortunately, she then remembered she had to switch her number onto her new singlet, and of course, the lucky pin.

“Hey, hey, big time,’ Warren Fowles shouted to her when she inadvertently approached him on her way back into the park.

“Good luck, Warren,” she softly smiled without even so much as a hesitation in her jog. She wasn’t going to let his arrogance steal her mood from her. Solian was jubilant and just for a moment squeezed her fists. She was ready and she knew it. This is it!

Chapter 33

The runner awoke with a start, his T-shirt drenched in sweat. He had been dreaming he was being lectured on how disgusted he should be with himself for avoiding the Greater London Marathon by the Canadian cancer victim, Terry Fox. Fox’s last words to him before he awoke had been: “you’ve got the legs I haven’t got.”

He threw back the duvet on his huge king-sized bed, then glanced at the clock: 5:30 a.m. With a surge of adrenalin he bounded to the phone and rooted through the yellow pages.

“Yes, could I get a taxi to the Camden allotment gardens in Fitzroy Park within the next half hour? What? The Camden allotment gardens, that’s right. Yes, William Westwood, 540-652. Thank you.”

He plugged in the kettle before beginning to sift through a drawer of T-shirts, singlets, shorts, and other running gear to come up with something appropriate for the occasion. He lifted up a yellow-and-green singlet with Oregon on it. “Nope.” After several more searches he picked up a thin purple singlet and matching nylon shorts. “Ah, yes,” he said aloud. “My favorite color.”

Wearing a plain gray sweatshirt and sweatpants he paced the blacktop of Fitzroy Park in the brisk air and wondered if getting Carlson’s number was going to be possible. All the hassles. But forget that, he told himself. You’ve got to do it. You’ ve used your appearance as an escape for too long. It’s time for you to test what you can do. Worry about the problems later. Save some adrenalin for the race.

“I’m afraid this is about as close as I’m going to be able to get, mate,” the taxi driver told him as they were stalled in traffic about a half mile from the park. The taxi had been 45 minutes late in picking him up, and then only after the runner had phoned them again to complain.

He glanced down at his watch: 8:30. “This is fine.” He handed the driver fifteen pounds. “Keep the change,” he said, leaping from the back seat out onto the street.

Within five minutes he located a tent under which runners were having their numbers scanned by computer and quickly approached one of the workers wearing a Greater London Marathon Official T-shirt.

“Excuse me, but could you tell me where I can pick up a late number?”

The woman remained agape for a moment, but then was able to disguise her shock.” Aa… I don’t think you can. Numbers had to have been picked up on Friday or Saturday.”

“Well, there must be some sort of official tent here where I can inquire further,” he demanded nervously.

“You might try the race director’s caravan over near the yellow-and-red striped tea tent,” she answered, continuing to scan numbers with an electronic pen.

I can’t believe this, he thought to himself before looking down at his watch. 8:40! Quickly he ran over to the caravan, ignoring the occasional stares he received along the way.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if it would be possible to pick up a late race number here?” he inquired of a race official with a large body and reddened face, standing just inside the caravan.

The man took a sip of his tea. “Numbers were to have been picked up at the Richards Hotel on Friday or Saturday. I’m afraid you’re a bit late for that now.”

“TI was sick—may I please talk to the race director?”

“He’s not here.”

“Well, can I talk with whoever’s in charge of late numbers for invited runners?”

“Are you an invited runner?”

“No, but I should be,” the runner answered, staring into the man’s eyes with a penetrating brown eye. The official returned the stare as if contemplating his decision.

“Just a moment,” he said with a sigh. After what seemed an eternity, another official in the same Greater London Marathon Official jacket appeared.

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Sir, I was sick and couldn’t pick up my number over the weekend, so I was wondering if I could please have it now?”

“I’m sorry, but it’s a bit too late for that.”

“But I’m going to run a really good time.”

“Sorry, old chap, but we’ve heard that one before.”

“T can run under 2:08.”

“You can, can you?” the gray-haired official replied, glancing with a wry grin at his associate. “What’s your name?”

“Christopher Carlson.”

“Carlson, Carlson . .. I don’t seem to remember that name amongst the top 100 entrants.”

“That’s because my brother entered for me, and he didn’t know how fast a predicted time to put down, so he put down 2:48. My number is 816.”

“Well, if you can run a sub-2:08,” the portly official whom he had first approached stated with raised eyebrows, “I could give Cierpinski a run.”

The runner glanced down at his watch: 8:52! Just eight minutes to go!

“O.K., here’s the deal: if you’ll give me my race number, I’ll bet you £25 that Ican break 2:08.” The officials looked at each other.

“O.K., make it 50.”