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Warren Fowles heads to England to get the rest of his life underway. Part 2.

Chapter 3

Thirty-six-year-old Warren Fowles guffawed as he and his outrageous group of runners passed a dumbfounded family of overweight tourists who had just observed his T-shirt. Death Valley 100 Mile Waterless Survival Run Spectator usually got those sorts of reactions. And one had to have a laugh if one was to struggle through a Sunday morning 13-miler starting from the St. Coit Racquetball Club.

Over many beers late Saturday nights he usually let his running friends, most of them attorneys or business owners in the city, somehow talk him into doing the Sunday runs. Even though he got very little exercise other than walking and elbow bending, he knew his residual fitness level would get him through the run, and at a good pace.

Warren’s wavy jet-black hair and mustache together with his slender-hipped and wide-shouldered physique gave him an appearance most women, and certain men, in San Francisco, found attractive. At six feet, 155 pounds, and with sinewy legs, he would have indeed—at an earlier age—had the makings of a world-class runner. In fact, he had done quite well running cross country for Highgate School in London before his English father had died and he and his American mother had moved to Portland, Oregon. But, as is often the case with people having talent, he had let his abilities slide.

After all, the only reason he had bothered to get his Law degree at the University of Oregon and then had become an attorney, for the often unethical firm of Jarndyce and Weaselman in San Francisco, was to appease family pressures

regarding duty; yet simultaneously avoid their scrutiny through relocation. He was good at defending insurance companies (even though he hated to admit it), but had a difficult time reconciling such a diligent behavioral pattern with his out-of-office insouciant bohemian proclivities. Especially since the latter tendencies could be expanded anytime he so desired because of the annuity he received from the trust fund his father had left him. This $20,000-per-year supplement to his income as an attorney didn’t exactly allow him to live like a king in San Francisco—he having bought nothing with his annuities other than a few books, records, and several thousand bottles of imported beers and wines. But the amount often did cause him grave concern over why he continued to beat his head against the wall in the Embarcadero Center when he could be frequenting the cafes of Paris or the coffee houses of London.

It was one of those foggy San Francisco mornings when most of the sensible population slept in or went to read the Chronicle and have breakfast at Mama’s. But there he and his group were, clipping along at just over seven minutes per mile, he running just a chest’s thickness in front of Rick Forgette because he knew it drove him crazy.

“Fuck!” yelled Forgette, sweat flying off his blue pin-striped running shorts and singlet as one of his shoes caught on the edge of a cobblestone, tripping him.

“Too many brews at Perry’s last night, Ricky,” chided Rawlings Fay III, his stocky sweatsuit-clad body moving well on spindly legs.

“T’m not even awake yet,” Forgette moaned as they pattered by the park below the Buena Vista Cafe.

“Well, you look like Walt Stack without the tattoos,” Craig Thonis threw out. He wiped his brow on the sleeve of his football jersey with Anchor Steam Beer on the back. The pace was a bit too fast for him, but he was doing a good job of suppressing his breathing difficulties.

“Yah? Well, you look like Herb Lindsay with about 40 extra pounds, turkeyneck,” Forgette returned.

The middle-aged group wound out by the Maritime Museum, up through Fort Mason, along the Marina Green, and then headed into the gentle breeze blowing toward them across the open expanse on the way to Fort Point, the same breeze which always became a strong wind in the afternoons. Instead of going all the way out to the point, they turned up the road ascending to the Golden Gate Bridge above.

“Cut the pace,” Craig complained as Warren began to scramble up the blacktop road.

“Yah, take it easy,” agreed Rawlings. “You’ll still burn off your 1500 calories.”

The four increased the pace to perhaps 6:30 per mile as they skimmed along beside the four-strand groups of cables supporting the bridge 155 feet above the

mouth of the bay. Warren began to stretch it out, and approaching the point in the middle of the bridge where the giant, orange, main suspension cable almost reached the guardrail, picked up the pace to about 6:00 per mile. He knew they didn’t like his doing that, especially since they all ran every day while he was lucky to run twice a week, but it was his only chance to blow out the pipes, and he loved the feeling of power he got when striding out in the fog on that mystic bridge, particularly when he would hit the downhill bit approaching the tower on the San Francisco side, with the wind behind him. Usually he ran hard toward the Marin County line tower, turned around, then really pushed it, sometimes to a 5:15 pace—if he hadn’t had too much to drink the previous evening—all the way to the side road at the toll station, jogging around there until the rest of the group caught up.

But now just as he was preparing to make the slowdown, allowing him to negotiate the little u-shaped metallic ramp around the city-side tower, he could hear Forgette breathing heavily beside him. Warren cleared the tower with the clonging noises of Forgette’s foot plants closing, then, as a bass foghorn sounded, turned onto the concrete sidewalk heading the last 300 meters back to the toll station parking lot. He picked up the pace to what felt about a 4:50, the cars whizzing by on his right in almost a phantasmagoria, while the guardrails flying by to his left created a stoboscopic effect.

Andy Yelenak

“C’mon, Rick,” he taunted as Forgette pulled alongside, his legs churning like Calvin Smith in a 100 meters. Warren liked to let Forgette believe his improving fitness would allow the tall fellow to beat him, but he, of course, knew better. It was only when Forgette began to edge by Warren, thinking that today was the day, that the latter strode out, gobbling concrete at about seven feet per stride—not nearly as impressive as Juantorena’s nine feet—but enough to blow out Forgette.

Warren reached the parking lot, and dramatically bridled without turning around. Five seconds later Forgette slowed to a jog on the ramp down to the lot— something Fowles quite accurately felt he did to give the spurious impression of not having been trying. A minute later the perjorative remarks were flying once again, as the four gamboled at an 8:00 pace back down the road to bay level.

Eo * * “You’ve got to admit I’m improving,” Forgette said to Warren as the group sat, fourth Anchor Steam beer in hand. They were beside the front wall of the patio of the Savoy, the sun just beginning to burn through the fog.

“T don’t like admitting anything to anyone, but if I must do so, I have to agree to what you’ve said as being true. It’s your training that’s doing you in—too much running and not enough drinking. I wouldn’t be able to beat you if I ran as many miles as you do!” Warren smirked before an exaggerated swig from his Steamer.

“He could be right, you know, Ricky,” Craig agreed. “They’re lots of carbs and B vitamins in his type of training!”

“Yah, well, perhaps there is something to be said for training for an early death,” Forgette replied, pouring more beer into his glass. “For a would-be ‘bon vivant’ you sure work a lot down in that Embarcadero glass box. I don’t understand why you bother to work at all.”

“For the good of the family, my good man. One must appear to do one’s best to keep the color of one’s wool from appearing black, if you take my meaning.”

“Quite, yes.”

“Certainly,” added Thonis.

“T think Forgette’s right,” Rawlings contrasted. “With your money you should be over in Europe writing that book of poetry you’re always giving lip service to. You’re not fooling your family, anyway. They know you’re equally talented at Law and the Drink.”

“Now, now, gentleman. To do such a thing requires taking risk, and risk is something to be steadfastly avoided, because it invites failure. It was difficult enough for me to complete Law school and take a job,” he smiled, “yet now you would have me join my fellow rhyming scribes in Europe to actually pen something, instead of just talking about it?”

“Exactly,” Rawlings answered. He, Forgette, and Thonis exchanged conspiratorial glances.

“And just to liven up the possibility,” Craig Thonis said with pursed lips and raised brows, “the three of us have agreed to offer you a wager.”

“Really. And what might that be?”

Thonis looked at Forgette who looked at Fay.

“We thought since you were always talking about living in Europe and a non-existent book of poetry,” Rawlings Fay III stated, with just the odd trace of a curled lip, “we would offer you an opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Mmm. Sounds substantial.”

“Tt could be, old chap,” answered Thonis. “It is said that English winters are difficult and that the food’s lousy, but it’s also alleged that the real ale there is quite good, and that one can survive on foreign cuisine. And we also know that even though Shelley lived to be only 26—while you are already ten years older— he turned out quite a lot of first class stuff there. So we thought we would wager you the sum of your annuity for one year, or $20,000 if you like, that you can’t complete 2,000 lines of poetry, a modest 100 pages of 20 lines each, while living in Hampstead for a one-year period.”

“And should you be willing to take us up on our generous offer,” Fay added as he steadied his round horn-rimmed glasses, “Mr. Thonis has offered to persuade his father to publish the said tome.”

“Generous, indeed,” Warren nodded.

“We thought so,” Forgette agreed, running his hand back through his mane of wet blond hair.

“Well, gentlemen,” Warren calculatingly said, setting his beer back down on the table; and waiting until the interchange of raised-eyebrowed glances had died down following the passing of an overly made-up transvestite on the sidewalk below; “I appreciate your generous offer . . .” He trailed off as he reached down into his soiled gray canvas shoulder bag, only to pull a piece of paper from within it and sit back up again, “. .. but I should be taking candy from three babies if I didn’t apprise you of something I purchased, albeit under the influence, last Friday afternoon,” he said, proferring what appeared to be an airlines ticket.

The others grabbed it and quickly passed it around.

“An open, one-way British Airways standby ticket to London,” Forgette observed, staring down at the ticket in his hands. “What about Jarndyce and Weaselman?”

“T shall tender my resignation on Monday.”

“Seeing is believing, don’t you think?” Rawlings queried his fellow challengers.

“Tam going to resign, gentlemen. I was going to make the announcement at the end of lunch. So, if you would like the opportunity to withdraw your offer, Pil—”

“Withdraw?” asserted Craig. “I don’t think there’ll be any withdrawal, will there?”

The other two shook their heads from side to side with protruding lower lips.

“The bet still stands. We don’t think you’ll quit. You were probably just planning a vacation in Europe,” pronounced Rick.

Warren remained impassive.

“Do you accept our challenge?” Craig inquired, the other two looking on with confidence.

Warren Fowles crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and then exhaled dramatically as if giving the matter some last minute, grave consideration.

“Gentlemen,” he said, pausing to drain his Steamer bottle, and emphatically set it down on the table. “I shall be in Hampstead in 33 days’ time.”

Chapter 4

Chris hadn’t told his fellow workers at QBC the real reason he was quitting. He probably would have quit anyway, had the situation not have been as it was. But it was better that they didn’t know. He hadn’t even told his mother.

She already had had a rough time of it with his father dying of a heart attack at the early age of 51. The man had been a professional football player, yet had smoked at least a pack of unfiltered cigarettes a day for more than 25 years before angina had forced him to quit. But Chris had never completely believed in genetic predisposition, feeling that often what were considered inherited genetic traits were rather merely inherited bad habits, like his father’s smoking and high-fat diet.

In seeking ways to avoid his father’s misfortune, Chris first tried to reduce the fats in his diet, then read Kenneth Cooper’s Aerobics, convincing himself that no matter how distasteful it might seem, running promised the best conditioning results for the cardiovascular system within a given time period. Two miles run three times a week led to the occasional three-miler, then six-miler, and finally his first race, a half marathon.

It was upon finishing that event, with the acquired knowledge that nobody really cared how he looked even if he finished in the bottom 50 per cent of the field, that Chris became hooked.

He found runners to be his kind of people, many of them cerebral loners who could practice their sport any time, any place, alone or with others. Improvements were specific: all you had to do was look at your watch. Slowly he began to read more and more running magazines; to climb from 20 miles per week to 60; and to lose more and more pounds. His legs trimmed down and his face became lean and handsome. The swimmer’s slouch his broad shoulders had attained from swimming backstroke in high school was disappearing, and the pushups, situps,

and occasional swims were improving his muscle tone. Even his teeth seemed whiter, his wide smile giving him a boyish look other runners found disarming.

But it wasn’t always that way. His mother had worried during his childhood when he was constantly teased about his hairlip (since repaired, but much more visible then) and his carrot-colored hair. She had always believed he had never married due to the disfigurement of his upper lip, but in fact it was now barely noticeable, and his childhood speech impediment was completely gone.

Chris actually had done quite well with several girlfriends in the more recent years, and if the truth be known, it was rather more his obsessive preoccupation with running, his interests such as books and chess, and his short attention span—perhaps developed to match the length of a typical television news spot (1:30)—which caused him either to bore most women or most women to bore him. Besides, he was an incurable romantic, who refused to lose faith in the possibility that he would eventually meet a brilliant, good-looking, athletically talented lady, and it was just such a hope which prevented him from wasting his time with dating.

Owing to the precariousness of his situation, Chris had decided to live in London, where he knew no one. He had always wanted to live abroad, but had been so busy ascending the union ladder leading to editing that he had never quite made it over to Europe.

“There’s a telephone call for you, Mr. Carlson,” called the woman who ran the bed and breakfast at which he was staying, somewhere near Paddington Station.

“Thank you.” He hoped it was a caller with reference to the ad he had placed in the Hampstead & Highgate for a self-contained flat somewhere near Hampstead Heath. He had chosen that location, because the issue of Running magazine he had picked up at Harrod’s had contained a feature on the running trails to be found on the heaths, and also because of his awareness of the area’s rich history of resident writers and artists.

“Hello.”

“Youwannaroom?”

“Pardon me?”

“Youwannaroom?”

“Who is this?”

“You place ad in Ham and High looking for room?”

“Oh, yes,” Chris answered skeptically. “Do you have a self-contained flat somewhere near Hampstead Heath?”

“Vereenear.”

“Where exactly is it?”

“Baysphwater.”

Chris just shook his head. “No thanks.”

“You come see. You change mind.”

“No thanks. I guess you didn’t read the ad.”

“Sawree?”

“T said, I guess you didn’t read the advertisement: it specified near the heath, not six miles away. Goodbye.”

Chris hung up the phone. Why couldn’t people reply only if they had something specifically requested in an ad? He was surprised someone didn’t call offering a basement in Tooting Bec! There had been a woman who had a “quiet” flat for a writer in the Finchley Road, which Chris found—after a 45-minute underground ride—created a similarity of living on the Monza Wall. Not to mention the bedroom adjoining that of the 75-year-old proprietress, and the parlour looking as if Vincent Price would find it quite comfortable. Then there was the nice place in the back of the vegetation-shrouded home in Redington Road in Hampstead, where he had obliquely been informed of the widowed owner’s displeasure of any overnight guests, by the caretaker’s stating the flat was “just for one.”

Now, after three weeks at the bed and breakfast, even considering the runs around the Serpentine in nearby Hyde Park, he was so discouraged he was about to pack it in, and accept just anything. Then he noticed the ad, seemingly for what he wanted, right on the heath in Highgate.

“This is more like it,” he said aloud to himself as he finally discovered the entrance to Fitzroy Park, concealed by white wooden poles posting nothing more than the North London Bowling Club.

Looking ahead down this tree-shrouded lane, he could tell that although the location was quite near the city, it had a feeling of the country about it. Large, well-maintained homes loomed partially hidden on both sides as he proceeded down the gradually steepening, badly maintained tarmac. Rounding a curve, he paused near a driveway entering a gravel parking area behind a huge, stately white home. Just on the tilting brick wall, partially obscured by vines, he spotted a faded wooden sign: The Oaks. His spirits lifted when he realized this to be the destination mentioned by the gentleman on the telephone.

“Hello there,” came a voice from a short, elderly man in shabby woolen sweater and tattered trousers, sprigs of gray hair erratically shooting off in scattered directions from various parts of his head.

As the old man ambled towards him, Chris couldn’t figure out where he had come from, but he could see the old fellow was carrying a garden trowel and puttering along with a bow-legged, yet sprightly gait.

“Hello. Can you tell me where I might find a Mr. Armathwaite?”

“Yes, Basil Armathwaite here, and you must be Mr. Carlson. You’ve come to see about the flat, have you? Well, if you will just come with me we’ll go round to the front of the house . . .” he said, reversing direction and pulling weeds here

and there. “. . . Just pulling a weed or two… You can’t let them get ahead of you, you see. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful.”

Chris couldn’t believe the myriad blooming flowers, fountains, pine trees, monkey tree, statuary, and marble benches spread over the 100 meters down toward the heath. The two crossed a level, manicured lawn to reach a narrow patio beside the drawing room windows, and below blue canvas awnings.

“That’s Christchurch over there,” Mr. Armathwaite motioned with one hand while he dropped into a chair and ran his other hand through sparse, ragged locks. “Constable is reputed to have painted the heath from this spot at one point, though I haven’t been able to locate the painting—some say it’s in Hampstead somewhere. I haven’t a clue, though. Bought the place in 1948, so I’m new to the area,” he laughed with eyes twinkling from under bushy gray brows. “What brings you to London, then?”

“T came here to take some time off and run.”

“Good idea, that. You run marathons, I suppose. I used to do some running myself back in my Cambridge days—of course I don’t do much these days except a couple of laps round the lawn from time to time.” He again chuckled. “But then I’m 77 years old. Not quite as fit as you look, but I try to stay busy.”

“Looks like a pleasant existence, gardening.”

“Oh, I only wish I had more time to do that. But you see I still have my firm down in Lincoln’s Inn Fields—I’m a solicitor. But enough of all that. You’d probably like to see the flat, wouldn’t you?” he said, springing up from his chair. “The wife gets upset if she sees me sitting too long, you know,” he winked. ““What do you do with your spare time when you’re not running?”

“Oh, I try to read whenever and whatever I can, and I like to play chess.”

“Ah, yes, reading keeps the mind sharp and chess teaches a man patience; but I never seem to find the time, if you know what I mean,” he chortled, throwing his head back to reveal a few remaining teeth. “The wife always seems to have some sort of project or another for me, you see. You’re not married, are you? No, I didn’t think so. Smart man. Nasty business to be in. Stick to the running. Running and books will never let you down.”

Soon Mr. Armathwaite had shown Christopher through the tiny one-bedroom flat in a wing to the rear of the Oaks, continuing his energetic monologue as they went.

“Would you like to see some references?” Chris asked when they stood on the gravel apron, above the flower-lined patio adjoining the flat.

“That won’t be necessary: I like you. If you want the flat, you’re welcome.”

“Well, I think I’d like to take it.”

“Good. I think you’ll be quite happy here. The tenants we have all seem to get on quite well.”

“There’s just one question I have about the flat.”

“Mmm?”

“Do you think it would be all right to fold up those zebra skins on the couch and easy chair and put them s—”

“Of course, of course,” the septuagenarian giggled, throwing his head back again. “Just don’t say anything to the wife about it. I’ve had words with her about them before—she’s quite sensitive about those skins, you see. Did you walk from the tube station? Well, then, I shall give you a lift down to Kentish Town.” And, before Chris knew it, Mr. Armathwaite was off at a dead run to find his Mini somewhere on the other side of the house.

“Have you been for any runs on the heath, yet?” the old man asked, his head leaning backwards to enable him to see over the steering wheel as they hurtled down Highgate West Hill.

“No, I haven’t, but I’m really looking forward to it. I’d like to meet some of the other runners, and I suppose that’s the best way to do it.”

“T should advise joining a club. That’s the best way to meet your fellow harriers,” smiled Mr. Armathwaite. “As a matter of fact, the club to which I once belonged as a second club—Cambridge Harriers being my first—the Heathgate Harriers, run all around the heaths, and they meet down at Parliament Hill Fields track, just down at the bottom of the East Heath. A good group of lads. I should think about joining them, if I were you.”

Chapter 5

Solian Lede had taken the advice of her relatives. They had convinced her the best way to forget the death of her father was to move to the home he had left her in England. The move, ironically enough, promised the chance she had been looking for, of getting to Europe to experience some international competition.

She threw open the curtains of her second storey bedroom window and peered out through the foggy Sunday morning air, only to become immediately aware of how tasteless the gold-painted fleur-de-lis appeared, atop the black wrought-iron filigreed fence and gates, surrounding her newly acquired Hampstead residence in Ingram Avenue. Why had her father had them painted that way? She began to wonder if in fact he had ever lived there at all, or if rather, he had had a mistress who had lived there. Solian made a mental note that one of the first items she would have taken care of was the repainting of those garish fence tops as well as the gold trim on the white fluted moldings round the front door.

Actually the rest of the house was quite lovely with its red brick exterior, four large empty bedrooms, fireplaces in the main room and dining room, and a greenhouse adjoining the rear. Furnishing it would take some time, but then so most probably would the prospect of entertaining, since she had been given the

Peas See

tiem Tet

Andy Yelenak 7

telephone number of just one person to call in London. Which reminded her, as she glanced at her black chronograph, that she was to meet that same person in 30 minutes time at Parliament Hill track.

Within twenty minutes she had showered, bolted two cups of mint tea and honey, slipped into her running gear and shoes, and reconfirmed from her map of the heaths, that as a result of the three runs she had thus far taken, she had learned the shortest route down to the track.

“Right, then,” she said aloud to herself as she headed for the front door, its key pinned inside the elastic of her black running shorts.

Solian crossed Hampstead Lane a quarter mile from her new home and entered Kenwood’s grounds through its old wooden gates. Her legs were still cold and inflexible in the 12°C damp air. So using a quick, choppy cadence she strode across the tiny parking lot surrounded by the tall trees of the North Wood, then down the flower-lined winding path between the gardeners’ homes to the wooden slat gate separating the North Wood from the rolling expanse of Kenwood’s grounds beyond.

She was just beginning to stretch her legs out a little through the taller uncut grasses beyond the gate, when she noticed a runner in purple singlet and black shorts moving obliquely toward her. He is really going, she thought to herself

as she watched him angling toward the intersection of the two paths in front of them. Then as the runner flew by and on ahead, she noticed his badly scarred face. It looked as if he had been in a fire of some sort, the skin on the left side being badly discoloured and pulled upward, almost closing one eye. She almost turned away in horror at his ravaged face, yet she remained transfixed: never quite having seen anyone run with such power and speed, at least not with a developed chest like his. He was trim, but lacked the skinny look she associated with most of the top male distance runners she knew. And such an intense look upon his face as he powered up the first of the rolling hills in front of them, his near shoulder-length wet brown hair flailing about in all directions. He didn’t even seem to be breathing hard.

Purple and black, purple and black, she thought to herself. No particular association for those colours. She resigned herself to the conclusion they were probably of no significance but rather just a top and shorts the runner had thrown on for his morning run. She glanced at her watch: 8:55. She picked up her pace and hoped she could make it down to the track in time.

Reaching the bottom of Parliament Hill seven minutes later, Solian was relieved to see a large group of perhaps 40 runners chatting and stretching on a patio beside the changing rooms at one end of the track. From the logos on their T-shirts they appeared to be a fairly international group. Palos Verdes Marathon, Semi-Marathon Du Couesnon Rimou, Rhodes, Michelin 10, were just a few she noticed while approaching.

“Solian?”

“Oh, hello.” Solian turned to see a fit-looking lady in a mesh vest and European shorts standing before her. “Are you Elizabeth?” She hadn’t expected her one contact in London, Elizabeth MacGregor, whom she had been told was among England’s top ten marathoners, to be a striking girl with a figure and wearing makeup. Solian had never seen anyone who ran with shoulder-length wavy brown hair down, instead of pulled back, or one who wore nylon pantyhose underneath her shorts.

“Yes,” the girl beamed. “Did you have any trouble finding us, then?” she asked, revealing a Scottish accent by her lilting emphasis of the word finding.

“No, but I did get up late enough to think I was going to miss this run.”

“Oh, well, I never get up this early except for the Sunday runs,” the Scottish girl smiled while running a hand through her hair. “It’s too difficult. But I think you’ll quite like this run. We usually go for 18-22 miles out along Dollis Creek, and it’s lovely. I hope the pace won’t be too slow for you.”

“Ah, well, you needn’t worry: what with the time change and all, I just hope Ihave the energy to stay with the group.”

Elizabeth spent the next few minutes introducing her to several of the other female runners. Solian was happy to be meeting some girls who ran, but judging

from their appearances, she was afraid the pace of the run might indeed not be enough of a challenge.

“Tf there are any new runners here today,” a trim, black-mustached fellow said while the group quieted down, “we should tell you that we have two groups on the Heathgate Harriers’ Sunday run, a fast group and a slow group. Do we have any new runners here today?”

Solian nodded “yes,” and noticed several others nodding as well, including a tall, muscular runner with bright orange-coloured hair and sparkling blue eyes.

“The fast group usually starts out slowly and then somewhere along the way picks it up to about 7:00 to 7:30 pace, while the slow group starts at about an 8:00 to an 8:30 pace,” he said, glancing in Solian’s direction. “We suggest if you’re unsure of which group to run with, that you start with the slow group. There are several points during the run from which you can return if you don’t want to tun the entire three hours. The first point, Henley’s Corner, is about four-and-ahalf miles out, and then at about seven-and-a-half miles out the group stops at a fountain. Also, if any of you are interested in running in the Dark Peak 10 on June 14, either put your name on the list in the clubroom or see Hunter Michaels who is in charge of entries.”

ES Eo *

The first two miles of the run were gradually uphill along winding macadam paths beside the Highgate Lakes, unattended at that early hour except by fishermen huddled under umbrellas in the fog, then alongside Kenwood House, and up through the forested paths of the North Wood. Quite a few of the runners seemed to be labouring at the 7:30 pace on the steeper climbs, but Solian felt it almost to be a jog, compared to some of the climbs on the Waiatarua run in the Waitakeres near Auckland, as they wound to the top of the woods. Even Elizabeth seemed to be struggling, but Solian had been forewarned that her apparent efforts were misleading: that Elizabeth always seemed to have difficulty with her breathing when she began to run, but that once she got going she could hold her pace for up to 50 miles, and could run a 2:45 marathon.

The group moved easily over the same rolling dirt path where she had observed the runner with the scarred face, turned after the gate at Kenwood Corner, then proceeded to pass like advancing warriors up through a small forest with a barren floor beneath its thick cover, across a meadow, and up to Spaniards Road, about 400 feet above the City of London, and the highest point in the run. After a descent through the ominously shrouded Sandy Heath with its DANGER signs posted near boggy spots, the pack began to pick it up down the gentle incline across an open grassy expanse which Solian was informed was the Heath Extension, and on across a wet grassy turf area of school playing fields.

Solian was just noticing how most of the runners’ strides were short and choppy compared to the lengthy relaxed stride she had developed from her years of track

work and New Zealand hill running, when a runner emerged at a blistering pace, from a small opening in the wall of suburban home gardens toward which they were heading. It was the runner with the purple vest and the scarred face.

“Who’s that?” Solian asked Elizabeth as they watched him bolt across the field at what looked to be about a 4:20-per-mile pace. “He looks incredibly fit.”

“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth MacGregor smiled. “He does run quite fast, and he never stops. But other than the fact that he’s an American, no one seems to know who he is.”

Chapter 6

During his last several months of work in Los Angeles, when Chris knew he was going to quit, he had allowed the pressures of video tape editing, among them long hours and six-day weeks, to interfere with his running to the point where he had averaged only 45-55 miles per week. He still had been drinking then, and although he had converted to a near lacto-ovo vegetarian diet (some chicken and fish) several years earlier, he continued to hover at 184 pounds. However, upon his arrival in England he had given up alcohol, and even considering his secret malady about which he had told no one, his running was beginning to feel quite a bit better.

Giving up the drink was one thing, but hot stimulants remained an understandable tradition in the damp British climate, and Chris downed two cups of French roast coffee before jogging down to Parliament Hill track for the Heathgate Harriers’ Sunday run. However the coffee didn’t help. He felt sluggish when they set out and found it difficult to stay with the group over the initial climb because the only hill running he had done in the last few months had been during the few runs he had taken from his new residence.

Starting with the slow group probably would have been the smarter move, but then he figured he could always drop back to the slower group if the pace

became too difficult; and besides, he wanted to allow himself the possibility of meeting the tall, good-looking runner who had indicated she was also new to the Heathgate run.

Wow, that guy’s really moving, he thought while he struggled to stay with the back of the fast pack as they crossed a school soccer field. Chris wondered if there was ever going to be any possibility of his running at a blitzing pace like the runner in purple, as he sped off through a hedgerow onto another playing field. Ever since Chris had been running at the age of 29 after years of over-indulgence and lack of exercise, he had steadily improved, but still had been light years away from the abilities of really good runners. Probably never, he thought.

He was relieved when the harriers crossed a miniature bridge over a creek and came to a halt for announcements. They had been running for only 35 minutes, but he felt as if he had been out for an hour. At least the other runners had worked up sweats. Large clouds of steam arose from them as they stood there resting, making them look like so many loaves of bread just having been removed from the oven.

Should I turn back now, or continue on? Chris glanced in the direction of the tall, curly-headed blond girl with her weight resting upon one leg, and decided he would hang in there. Her legs fascinated him. He had never seen a female’s legs which looked so fit and yet still appeared rounded rather than sinewy. She didn’t seem to have much excess body fat, either, and ran with lengthy, powerful strides. Beside her a shorter girl stood breathing deeply, and the two standing together looked like Mutt and Jeff: the taller one having almost no hips, a flat chest, and broad shoulders; the shorter girl having very fair skin with a few freckles and being quite curvaceous. He told himself he had to make an effort to meet the taller one on the next leg of the run.

However the subsequent three-mile portion became a narrow path proceeding upstream along a creek bed, yet remaining flat enough that the front runners were picking up the pace to what felt to Chris like a sub-seven. He made several attempts at catching the tall blond lady whenever her companion was distracted by one of the many runners now having become strewn out over perhaps a quarter mile of the narrow path, but in each instance either another harrier fell in beside her to chat, or else when she was running alone, someone invariably attempted to engage him in conversation.

By the time they reached what was called the fountain somewhere in the vicinity of eight miles out, Chris knew, having run most of the last three miles with strained breathing, that he was pushing himself a little too hard for a long training run, especially considering his short weekly mileage. He would have to turn back. Some of the runners took to stretching while others went to relieve themselves behind a small park building.

“You’re going on with us, aren’t you, Solian?” Chris heard the shorter lady inquire.

Solian nodded affirmatively with a smile.

She would be continuing on, but he was only vaguely disappointed. Had she turned back, staying with her pace would have been difficult anyway.

Solian. That’s an unusual name. I wonder if she’s English? But she seemed too big to be British. Perhaps more Germanic, and yet her hair was so curly and her skin so dark. He couldn’t work it out.

But before Chris had a chance to ponder the matter further, Solian and group continued on while about twenty of the original group started back toward the heaths. As he began to run he realized just how incredibly tired he was. Those sub-seven spurts had taken their toll. Now what was he going to do? A pack of eight runners, three or four of them over 40 years of age, sprinted away from the rest of the group, obviously intent upon a fast run back. They didn’t dishearten Chris as much as the remaining bunch, whose mere 7:45 pace, now seemed too difficult for him to maintain.

Along Dollis Creek he drifted back through his fellow stragglers as one by one they pushed on ahead down the narrow winding path partially overgrown with wild blackberry bushes whose thorns periodically scratched his legs. He felt a sense of relief as he let himself sag to about an 8:15 pace in order to stem his breathing difficulties. /’ve got to lose the ten pounds I’m always talking about losing. It’s my only chance.

His initial impression of the Heathgate Harriers after talking with many of them early in the run was that other than a few overweight fellow Americans and several women, no one in the club, including a spindly 55-year-old, ran slower than 60 minutes for a 10-mile race or over three hours for a marathon. They all seemed to take their running with the seriousness he always told himself he did, yet they were all averaging 70-100 miles per week while he hadn’t hit 60 in a long time. No wonder he had never broken 3:07 for the marathon.

Having passed out of the close confinement of the bush-lined blacktop trail, he abruptly came upon a road, and while contemplating from which direction he had come, a Northern Line train clattered high above on an arched brick bridge looming overhead like a huge Roman aquaduct. Managing to find the creek’s continuation a half mile down, Chris followed its path for two miles before crossing the Finchley Road. He almost flogged himself up and down its embankments, but soon the trail became harder to follow. A tiny entrance into the Big Wood lay hidden somewhere in the hedges along the edge of a side street in the Hampstead Garden Suburb. Five minutes later he had to admit he was lost.

The Purple Runner will continue in our January/February issue.