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Warren makes his move—both in the 7-mile race and on a certain Kiwi. Part 4.

Chapter 10

hile munching a hamburger and quaffing a pint of Carling’s lager on the

patio of the Freemason Arms, Warren Fowles was perusing London NonWeekday to see what unusual activities he might plan for himself in celebration of completing fifteen lines of poetry during his initial period of residence in Hampstead. On that clear, but crisp early Friday evening it was difficult for him to concentrate on his reading, with the careening toddlers and ubiquitous scavenging dogs roving between the faded oaken tables and chairs. It occurred to him he should write a letter to the publican, that while children and dogs might be acceptable on a Sunday afternoon, Friday evenings ought purely to be devoted to the more predictable and slower-moving adults.

“Neville, leave the man’s drink alone,” admonished the mother of a tiny toddler, who, in reaching for Warren’s glass had managed to tip it enough to slosh one-fifth of its contents all over the page of the magazine he was reading. An intent but impassive glance at the mother before returning to his read would, he hoped in the British fashion, adequately convey his displeasure with her wandering offspring.

That might not be a bad idea, he thought to himself after scanning the events listed under the caption, “Non-Sedentary Exercise,” including the Brinjal Bhaji 7 Road Race scheduled for the following morning. Getting up at that early hour would be a difficult one, however.

“Oww-wo0-woo0-wooo000!” yelled the same tot, as Warren intentionally set his thin glass down on the child’s grasping little finger, which had the deleterious effect of creating a soprano stridency, yet also the ameliorating result of sending the ill-mannered sod packing. Giving the matter no further attention, Warren

decided the seven-mile race might be good fun, particularly after another night of moderate intemperance.

He awoke the following morning at the ungodly hour of 6:30, and contemplated whether in view of the previous evenings’s imbibing, he may have made too hasty a decision in planning to run. However, after a semi-comatose stroll down to the landing to pick up the Guardian, and then the downing of two cups of fresh-ground Columbian coffee over the paper with the soothing sounds of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, he began to focus on the task at hand.

Soon he had slipped into a pair of yellow nylon running shorts, an olive-green OREGON sweatshitt, and his relatively muddy white training shoes. He still felt a bit groggy, but thought a walk around for a half hour or so before the race would help to dissipate his feelings of lethargy.

The ride down through St. John’s Wood in the BMW 3.0 CS he had just purchased helped further to revive him, for even though the skies were overcast and it was still quite cold, he made this short fifteen-minute drive with the car’s windows down and sun roof open. Along the way he had to force himself to forego a stop at a bakery, knowing that food in the stomach was the last thing he needed before the anticipated challenge. And for a moment he thought he saw Jilly walking along Bayswater Road just as he was turning into Hyde Park, but the girl proved to be an unreasonable facsimile.

“Are you from Oh-ree-ghan?” a short, bald-headed fellow in Scottish plaid trousers, white buck shoes, yellow orlon shirt, and puce cardigan golf sweater inquired with stentorian projection as Warren patiently waited in line to register for the race.

“Aa …1.. yy—No, I visited there several years ago,” replied Warren, realizing the man’s keen observation of his sweatshirt and hoping his affected semi-British accent would be off-putting enough to avoid fraternization with this would-be patriot.

“Oh, I thought you might be an Amariken from that sweatshirt. My wife and I visited Oh-ree-ghan in 1974, and we just loved it.”

Did you now.

“Are you from Lawndon?”

“Yes Iam.”

“Tt sure is a bewteeful city. ’ll bet you just love livin’ here, and a’course runnin’ here—the wife’s the runner in the family, you see—”

“If you’ll excuse me, I do believe I must avail myself of a piss in the bushes over there,” Warren interrupted before jogging off quite quickly.

Five minutes later he again waited patiently in line before finally reaching the registration table. He gave a cursory smile to return the leering grin of the

woman sitting behind the table attired in some sort of yellow-and-magenta guru getup, briefly causing his eyes to go in and out of focus.

“50p, please. Would you like a Brinjal Bhaji T-shirt?”

“Just the race, please . . . as attractive as that T-shirt with the bearded chap on it might be at my next Lion’s Club meeting, I’m afraid I shall have to forego it.”

“Sorry?”

“Just a race number, please.”

“Certainly. And may the spirit of the Exalted Bhaji be with you in the race.”

“Most kind. Thanks awfully.”

Warren felt extremely sluggish as he jogged along behind two runners in white singlets with red sashes. And while staring at a girl in tight jeans dancing on roller skates and listening to a Sony Walkman, he nearly slipped on some goose guano; then, in an attempt to avoid one of the honking gobblers, gave himself a mild hip pointer. However, after a series of three-quarter speed 100-yard striders, the pain went away and he felt his preparations to be as much as he was willing to do without taking the race too seriously.

Some of those harriers looked pretty mean and lean. Most of them wore old running gear and golf socks with their running shoes, but English runners’ appearances could be quite deceiving. From his Highgate days Warren remembered just how well they could tear across paddocks and scamper up muddy hillsides. Flat courses were cakewalks for the British. In today’s seven-miler he knew he would be lucky to finish in the upper half of the field, and also be happy just to break 42 minutes.

Hitting the one-mile mark in 5:30 surprised him. He hadn’t thought the pace that fast, especially since he could see two women ahead, but still he felt like he was thrashing himself. His legs were heavy and Warren didn’t think his lungs could handle the pace because of his gasping for air and expectorating. But in the second lap the old stride loosened a bit, and after the mucus cleared from his bronchial passages his breathing became easier.

He was closing on one of the women, and he liked what he saw. She had to be 5’9″ tall, with well-shaped, long legs, and her stride seemed to be smooth, powerful, and relaxed. Warren continued moving up on her. /6:23 for three miles is amazing. Maybe the course is improperly marked. Pulling up beside her, he attempted to chat up the tall slender-hipped girl. Not surprisingly, she smiled but seemed intent upon her racing so he decided to try again after the race.

Having left this beauty behind his pace began to seem relaxed and he felt more and more of the previous evening’s toxins being exuded from his body via pores and lungs; purged like unwelcome spirits. He had forgotten just how cleansing really hard running could be. A little bit of this every week and quite

a few of his overindulgences could be mitigated. Now who was this other girl upon whose shoulder he found himself? She had an amazingly fast cadence and her legs were so white. She must train in sweats all the time; or else must never have left England.

He began to worry when he could feel himself beginning to tighten up just after the five-mile mark. Well, no training, boy: you’ ve got to tough it out! The quads were going and his stride was shortening. “Shit!” Warren muttered to himself after a 50-year-old man with Eton Schools on the back of his vest moved by him with an inflexible, choppy stride. He considered dropping out, but then realized that if he would just allow himself to shorten his stride and slow his cadence, inertia would propel him the rest of the way after the last slight incline.

“… 38:19…“ the official called out as Warren collapsed across the line. He was drenched in sweat and the bottoms of his feet felt a little sore, but basically @ was quite pleased over his time, and with having just edged the Cambridge arrier in the last ten yards, with whom he was now shaking hands. Considering Warren had run only three four-mile runs in the previous week and had consumed prodigious quantities of alcohol, he was convinced he had done quite well. A little work and he could be down below five minutes per mile. But then when he really thought about it, he really didn’t want to take it that seriously. Of larger concern seemed to be the whereabouts of the “tall blonde lady with two shoes.”

His chest still heaving he surveyed the other breathless competitors, but she didn’t seem to be anywhere in sight. He wandered over to a Bhaji table manned by two sub-gurus, or whatever their appellations might be, to look for some sort of post-race refreshments having been mentioned in the London Non-Weekday. The orange quarters looked palatable but he deliberately stepped into some white bread, butter-and-cheese sandwiches whose delectability closely resembled counterparts often found served on British Rail.

Suddenly the girl was visible over near the certificate table. She was peering over the shoulders of several male runners in an attempt to see if the results were there. Determining they were not, the tall blond lady stepped away and then stopped, as if deciding what her next move would be. Warren took this as an opportunity. In an attempt to obtain eye contact, however, he tripped on a miniature grass mogul, sloshing his cup of water over his forearm.

“How did you do?” he asked while still walking toward her.

“TI came second,” she answered, clowning a frown.

“That’s good. You ran a good race.” Banal fucking remark. “What was your time?”

“Oh, 38:02. How did you go?”

“Not well. A little out of condition for this sort of thing. About 38:19. But considering the amount of running I’ve been doing, I should be quite happy, I suppose,” he temporized. “Are you from South Africa?”

“No,” the girl laughed. “New Zealand. That’s alright,” she said as he started to apologize. “People usually confuse our accents with Aussie accents, anyway. Are you Canadian or American?”

“American, but I often wish I were Canadian.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’ve undoubtedly noticed Americanos are not very well thought of most places in the world. Particularly here in England as soon as any American opens his mouth, people assume—and admittedly often with good reason—he’s an ignoramus as well as Reagan’s personal envoy on foreign policy and economic strategy.” The New Zealander stood on one leg with her hands on her hips, and Warren was having a difficult time keeping from mentally pulling down those nylon shorts. “But never mind all that. What are you doing here in London?”

“T got an opportunity for a place to stay, and since I’ve always wanted to come to Europe to run, it was the chance I’ve been waiting for. And you?”

“T’m taking some time off from a law firm in San Francisco to do some writing. And since my French is a little rusty, I chose Hampstead instead of Paris.”

“Oh, you’re staying in Hampstead? I’m staying there as well. It’s a lovely place, isn’t it?”

“Mmm,” he nodded with a smile. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your concentration during the race. I didn’—”

“Ah, I wasn’t bothered. I’m sorry I didn’t give any sort of reply, but when I’m racing, it takes too much energy to talk.”

“You must be right, judging by my last mile,” he laughed and she joined in. “38:02 is a very good time. Is that your best?”

“Mmm, which surprises me because I haven’t done any track work in weeks. But then in Auckland we don’t have many flat courses to race on, so perhaps that’s why I did well. Do you know who that girl is that won? I heard someone call her Tika, and I wondered if she might be Tika Bernheinns, but then I thought that if she were, I never would have got that close to her.”

“That’s exactly who it is from what I heard a couple of people saying, and I think I saw her name in Track & Field News as being one of the top 10,000 meter runners in 1980. She’s—oh, I guess they’re going to start giving out the awards, so I should let you go over there. Do you need a lift home?”

“Oh, I think I’m going to run home to keep the mileage up. But thank you, anyway,” she smiled.

The two stood there awkwardly, each waiting for the other to say the parting line.

“Do you like Italian food?” Warren knew his pending question would be too direct for an English girl, but he thought the New Zealander might be more receptive.

“Yes,” she nodded, “especially garlic bread.”

“Well, how about joining me tomorrow night for dinner in Hampstead?”

“That would be lovely.”

Chapter 11

Sorry to leave you so quickly, but no one must learn my identity, the runner with Milano 74 on his jacket thought as he sprinted from his fellow American with the sprained ankle. He had spent six years perfecting his evasiveness, and he wasn’t about to let anyone interfere with the one enjoyment he had left in his life: running. The world wasn’t ready for his kind of running. He wasn’t sure if he had enough speed to beat Scott or Cram at the mile, but he was confident he was capable of running a sub-13-minute 5,000 meters.

The trouble was that people found his appearance so horrifying. The accident had left him so badly scarred that it was difficult for people even to talk to him. Some even apologized when their children were frightened. So showing the world his incredible abilities would be something to which he would never submit. All that they could know was that he was a very fast, badly scarred runner who blistered across the heaths. And besides, I’m not sure who I am, anyway.

Without his appearing at races no one would know his true speed over a given distance. Often runners had tried to join him on fast runs, but whenever he saw

them coming he stepped up his pace. They’d try to hang on, but after their initial questions were sidestepped they were quite breathless to continue, usually falling off before a half mile.

Once he had run a twilight time trial on a hilly 10,000-meter course, measured by bicycle on a previous evening, around the circumferences of the East and West Heaths. He had run 27:48! The world is just not ready for someone with my freaklike appearance to run a sub-27-minute 10,000 meters on the track.

Sometimes his plight got him down. When he had first arrived in England he had still been in shock from his monstrous appearance. He had thought that going there would effect an escape, but people there were just as horrified as they might have been anywhere. But eventually he reconciled himself to his fate— notwithstanding periodic bouts of depression—getting to the point where music, running, food, and his competition mementos became his friends.

Fortunately he had replied to Watson Doyle’s advertisement in the Hampstead & Highgate for someone to go on long runs of up to 30 miles during the day. He had taken a chance by doing so, hoping that Doyle would allow a great deal of his history to remain unknown, and luckily the Scottish 50-year-old, who had been made redundant from his job as a Camden Council worker, had been amenable to his secrecy. And without knowing about his already existing annuity and hideout, it had been Doyle who had suggested he look up the philanthropist, Basil Armathwaite.

Day by day and month by month he had adjusted to the lack of friends and the inability to compete, two very difficult changes for a gregarious and competitive person such as himself. He missed the attention he vaguely remembered having received as a top competitor, but strangely enough, he now found being alone to be quite enjoyable at times. And he did share the company and advice of Watson Doyle. At 6’1″ and 148 pounds the old man had thighs and a stride like Rick Wohlhuter, and often would pound out 150-mile weeks and had run a 2:30 marathon.

The runner darted between the upper Highgate Ponds and dashed up across the muddy field below Beechwood’s grounds, jogging the 150 meters of Fitzroy Farm to cool down before entering the Camden allotments. Before walking between the brussel sprout patches to the vicinity of his dilapidated garden shack, nestled behind the other faded lath-board sheds, he scrutinized the area. Carefully he began to putter around his garden amongst the sprouts, carrots, parsnips, onions, and new potatoes in order to make sure no one was observing him, then walked to his shed and opened the lock with the giant rusty key retrieved from beneath a nearby flower pot.

Occasionally one of the other allotment tenders had seen him enter his shed and not return, but those few were retired Camden residents, who although much more observant and possessed of their faculties than they led others to believe,

normally minded their own businesses and asked no questions. For all they knew he was his benefactor’s gardener. He never spoke to them and the ones that did see him, including the old woman from down the lane who drove the old blue electric dairy truck laden with fertilizer bags, quickly averted their eyes and returned to their plant-tending preoccupations.

Inside the windowless shed he shut the shabby door and double-bolted its top and bottom, then flipped on a 40-watt bulb illuminating bags of fertilizer left standing about so any investigative souls in the area might find the smell of the shack quite authentic for a gardening shed. Quickly he shifted the open aromatic sacks to the other side of the tiny wooden storage hut, lifted the cinder blocks upon which they had been resting, then threw aside the remaining rubber mat. All of the items were measures taken to insure that anyone who might break the lock and enter the shed would find its contents appropriately boring. To complete the facade in the tiny area were several terra-cotta pots, a gardening trowel, a spade, and a pitchfork. Finally to allay suspicions over his lengthy seclusions in the shed—should anyone break into the place following his departure to satisfy his or her curiosity—: a rocking chair, and beside it a small bookstand upon which rested a tiny lamp and an upside-down, open paperback entitled, The Hound Of The Baskervilles.

The trap door itself appeared merely to be several staggered planks in the floor, but beneath its surface was a steel plate which the runner bolted on three sides from below after descending through its opening. He flew down the huge metal staircase, once planned as an access to the Northern Line’s forgotten Kenwood underground stop, two steps at a time. The stairwell had been the first step in a project which had become lost forever to Londoners when an itinerant World War Two bomb had concealed its entrance with tons of clay. Then as the bombings of London became more intensive, the project had been scrapped, and the concealed entrance forgotten: until one day the runner’s benefactor’s son started digging a tunnel under his father’s gardening shed and hit metal.

Upon hearing of his son’s discovery the old man suddenly remembered the abandoned project, then quickly deduced the hidden expanse to be a perfect location for his own private air-raid shelter and wine storage area. Soon the two were clandestinely excavating the concealed top of the stairwell. Fortunately for the benefactor’s plans, but unfortunately for his well-being, shortly thereafter his son was killed while riding his motorcycle. This occurrence before—as boys will be boys—the son had had an opportunity to reveal their secret to anyone else.

As the runner bounded down the last of 201 steps—nine more than the stairwell of the Covent Garden underground station—he could feel the chill air of the gigantic cave drifting toward him. This was caused by the gentle flow of a hidden branch of the Fleet River, whose rivulet trickled through the huge cave once used by Dick Turpin as a hideout.

Andy Yelenak

He flipped the switch to illuminate the 24 sconces throughout the room. Each sconce supported a different bronzed running shoe, dangling strings and all, an incandescent bulb, and a small cream-colored shade. They cast a warm yellow glow throughout the vast cavern which was created amidst the only rock found under an otherwise sand-and-clay stratal area. The enormous walk-in hearth still smoldered at the far end of the room.

Within minutes he had thrown another oak log on the fire; removed his shoes; dipped his feet into the plastic tub of specially concocted soap solution which removed obnoxious odors from sweaty feet caused by sockless running; and stripped off his jacket and wet T-shirt. He plopped down on the purple velvet cushions of a filigreed teak armchair and propped up his feet by the fire on an ottoman fashioned from one of his college athletic bags with handles removed and stuffed with shredded computer paper. After wiggling his feet before the warmth of the rekindling flames, he began to read the latest two-month-old issue of Running magazine recently received from the States. He had hardly completed a paragraph when the phone rang.

“Oh, hello, Sir.”

“T thought I’d ring you to see if you needed anything. I’ve seen to those subscriptions to Running Times and New Zealand Runner, however, I haven’t been able to acquire the shoes you’ve requested yet. But I shouldn’t worry. I would imagine they’ll arrive within the fortnight or I shall fly to Boston to get

them myself!” his benefactor laughed. “Your account at Coutts must be running a bit low, so I have put in another thousand pounds. I shouldn’t worry about any overdrafts too much if I were you, as the managing director is the son of an old Cambridge chum of mine. Everything alright, then?”

“Yes, sir. And my running’s gotten much better again this week—I think the easy week helped.”

“Ah, yes: a little bit of rest always helps. I wish my running had got better, but it hasn’t; and it won’t, I suppose, unless I can get the old legs to do more than two or three circuits of the lawn,” he chuckled, the runner joining in. “Well, I must ring off now. Do ring if you need anything. I think the wife’s baking some scones or some such for you. I hope they’ ll be safe.”

The runner laughed. “I’m sure they’ll be O.K. That’s very kind of her. Do you need anything done in the garden?”

“Perhaps a bit of tidying of the remains of last year’s apples still floating in the pond. However, I shouldn’t worry about any tidying today: I’ve got some Camden Council people coming to tramp round the place to determine the rates. They’re a hard lot to convince when it comes to decrying the value of one’s property, but an untidy pond might help to persuade them that much of the garden is unimproved vegetation or some such poppycock. I find my charities far more worthy of incomes than the borough council—but I shall have to ring off now. The wife’s pointing to some message or another.”

“Goodbye, sir, and thank you for everything.”

“Not atall. Anything for a fellow harrier. Oh, and in view of my visitors I shouldn’t use the entrance to the underground at this end today, if I were you. Is it warm enough for you down there? Don’t worry about using the electric fires if you get cold—you can’t be running if you don’t sleep well. You’ve got enough oak logs, have you?”

“Yes, sir, everything’s fine.”

“Good, good. And you’re not planning any more of your air quality protests, are you? Things don’t move quite as quickly over here you know, and people don’t respond well to pressure, as you may have noticed.”

“T’m sorry, sir, but have you read about the recent lead level testing of school children in the area?”

“Mmm. Appalling, isn’t it.”

“Tt is, sir. | don’t know how anyone who drives a cab or pedals a messenger bike can survive more than a day down on Fleet Street, the air’s so bad. I don’t have another anonymous letter planned right now, but if I’m out running and choke on more fumes from those trucks on the Archway Road, I don—”

“Tt is quite noxious there, what with all those trucks and buses spewing out this and that, but the rains do tend to clear the air often enough for people not to be bothered about it. However, with your comments in mind, I have had a word

with a friend of mine in The Lords, and he assures me they are aware of such untimely developments as lead levels and whathaveyou. Anyway, I must go—the wife’s nearly apoplectic now. Cheerio.”

After hanging up the phone the runner glanced up at the poem etched into the wall centuries earlier:

The ayre awn Hampsteed Heathe is goode

For lyfe,

For brethe,

Aynd for yore bloode.

The runner’s stand on air quality was his only form of activism for a cause. He wasn’t willing to make waves for any other causes, but sometimes it almost drove him into a frenzy that people were willing to put up with the pathetic miasmas of the world’s major cities. And being a runner he was particularly concerned with automobile emissions. It was bad enough that most pollution control devices on cars in America were inadequate, but in London cars weren’t required to have any controls at all. So often he found himself accosting different drivers at intersections when their vehicles were spewing forth nitrous oxides, carbon monoxide, particulate matters, and the many other forms of lung-destroying irritants.

Once again reading his magazine by the fire, he remembered he needed some more muesli for the following morning’s breakfast, so he slipped into a dry T-shirt, shoes, and jacket, then after the 201-step climb, unobtrusively slipped back out of his gardening shed to run up to the village.

The 400-yard climb up Fitzroy Park was mainly a gentle one, not enough distance to properly warm up, but nevertheless he liked to push up as well as down the blacktop lane going to and from the village to strengthen his legs and lengthen his stride. He was already breathing deeply by the time he reached the white wall separating the lane from the Oaks, and it was just at that point when an old faded-green Morris noisily sped by him, spewing out massive amounts of particulate black soot into his face. The runner held his breath as best he could until he had run through the majority of the exhaust, but still was forced to inhale several lungfuls while continuing the climb.

At the top of Fitzroy Park where it began to level out reaching The Grove, there sat the Morris, its engine still running. Its driver, a person clad in all black leather adorned with various metallic silver spikes, chains, and gigantic safety pins, sported magenta crew-cut hair with lengthy bleached-blond clumps protruding from the middle of his skull like a saw-toothed rooster’s crown. He stood beside the front fender of the air-befouler talking to a hunched-over character astride an idling, all-black Mitsawaki 850 motorcycle. The biker seemed to be listening impassively to the rooster man while playing with a large gold safety pin attached through his nose like an ox ring. The cyclist’s black-and-white

striped, close-cropped hair was broken only by a lengthy turquoise-blue Hitlerian forelock, which seemed to risk immolation as he periodically inhaled deeply on a self-rolled, brightly lit cigarette.

The runner came to a halt alongside and waited until his presence interrupted their conversation.

“Excuse me, but you ought to get your car tuned up: it’s spewing out a lot of fumes from the exhaust.”

After suppressing his initial shock over the runner’s appearance the rooster man cynically looked at his friend, then back at the runner.

“Well, I hope we didn’t get those lovely shorts of yours sooty, mate.”

“Tt looks as if his bloody face has been hit by a lot worse.”

Ignore the insults. You’ve heard them all before.

“No, look, people shouldn’t have to breathe the kinds of pollutants cars like yours are putting out.”

“Maybe they should hold their breaths,” the rider replied.

“You think you’re clever, but children in this area have up to twenty times the lead levels in their bodies than health standards recommend.”

“T don’t know Standards, himself, mind you,” the rooster man said with a cynical glance toward the rider, “but I don’t think eating lead’s good for you, eh, mate? I think they should eat more veg.”

“Mmmm, definitely more veg.”

The two turned back to the runner with pursed lips and bobbing, nodding heads.

“O.K., but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m going to remember your license number, and if I see your car putting out crap like that again, I’m going to report it to the police.”

“Listen, Yank, with a mug like yours,” the rooster man hissed as he climbed back into his car and put it into gear, “I shouldn’t report anything to the old bill, if I was you. I’d just go get pissed.”

With a screech of tires the car accelerated off in one direction; the cyclist exploded into a wheelie in the other. The runner could do no more than pound his fist down on the rear fender of the departing car. Punks!

A tear crept out of the corner of one eye as he ran hard through the village to the Highgate Granary. It was hopeless. No one really cared about air quality really, and his appearance made his small attempts to change the world exercises in futility.

On the way back to his hideaway with his new supply of muesli the sun briefly popped out between some clouds. In England the runner had continuously taken such occurrences as symbolic rays of hope, and once again he told himself while slowly striding by the large red brick home in The Grove where Coleridge had once lived, that just as with his running, he could never give up hope. My face

might be screwed up, he thought as he rounded the corner back into Fitzroy Park, but at least I’m in shape and healthy.

A hundred yards further he could hear a car rapidly coming up on him from the rear, so he moved to the left edge of the asphalt. In thinking the sound of the engine was somehow familiar, he started to look back over his shoulder: something struck the side of his head, causing a vague falling sensation.

Chapter 12

“Ow!” Chris moaned aloud. He looked away from his book and down at the bag of frozen peas draped over his swollen ankle suspended upon a pillow on the coffee table. Chris had done just what the runner had recommended: he had run the shortest route home on the injured ankle. The pain had held steady, and as soon as he had gotten home he had put the bag of frozen peas upon the ankle, a device learned from some English runners.

Chris tried to go back to reading Dickens’ Bleak House, but his mind kept wandering back to contemplation of just how much training time he was going to lose. He hated those intervals of non-running when his body became more and more gummed up while he continued to eat and drink without exercise. Some runners went in for swimming during such periods, but he had never been able to force himself into such a regimen.

By removing the peas from time to time he could see the plan was working: the swelling was slowly going down. This convinced him an attempt should be made to cart himself up to The Flask, his neighborhood pub in Highgate (but no relation to The Flask in Hampstead), so that he might sit at one of the large oaken tables outside it and read his book, while eating salt-and-vinegar crisps and drinking mineral water. However, the realization came that such an effort might be too difficult for his ankle to handle, even if he were to use a cane of some sort.

For over an hour he vacillated back and forth between making the venture and staying put. Finally he could stand (or sit, as his actual case was) it no longer. Encouraged by the increased light outside, as the sun every so often popped through the clouds, he made the decision to limp patiently up to The Flask.

Even with the utilization of an oak umbrella for a cane, by the time he turned up into Fitzroy Park from the driveway he knew he was doing something he shouldn’t. Nevertheless, as is the case with most diehard runners, he continued walking, telling himself the pain from his ankle could only get better. Then at the corner in front of Beechwood House, a car careened toward and by him, black smoke blazing from its exhaust.

“Puhhh,” he coughed, swatting the air with his free hand. Chris was glad he lived so far from the city and its smog. Such incidents merely served as reminders

Andy Yelenak

that pollution was pervasive in London, but even so he felt the air to be almost unsullied compared to the nitrous oxide-ridden summer air of Los Angeles.

Severely limping with the cane, his progress continued up by the large lathand-plaster house reputed to belong to the drummer of Pink Floyd. “Phew, that hurts!” he groaned before stopping and attempting to reduce the pain by revolving his ankle a bit above the ground. It was then he noticed the prostrate figure on the road ahead. /?’s that runner. He was lying on his back with one hand up to his forehead as Chris hobbled toward him.

“Are you O.K.?”

“Damn, damn, damn, damn!” the victim cursed as Chris bent down over him. Suddenly the runner sat up and made a fist. “I’ll get those guys if it’s the last thing I do!”

“What happened?”

“Ah, I was just t—wait a minute, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be walking on that thing, you should be icing it, remember?” he reprimanded, shaking his head. “Typical runner.”

“T did ice it, and the swelling seemed to go down.”

“Yah, but if you remember, I said for 48 hours at least.” He reached out his hand toward Chris’ ankle. “Well, let’s have a look at it now and see what it looks like.”

Chris pulled up the trouser leg and removed the sock. They both shook their heads.

“Now look at it. You should be staying off the ankle for at least two days.”

“Sorry, I—”

“IT know how it goes. I’m the same way. I’ve had every type of doctor, podiatrist, chiropractor, and osteopath tell me to lay off when I’m injured, and I’ve usually ignored them. But you always pay the price. With a sprain, depending upon the severity, you have to give it time to reduce the swelling and begin the repairing process before running on it. I think nature can handle almost any running injury, but you have to give it a chance. And remember that you can run through an injury, but you should never race through an injury. You’re just irritating that ankle by walking on it now. I’ll give you a hand down the lane to your place, and when you get there, stay put, O.K.?”

“Yah, O.K., but what about your head?”

“Oh, I’ll be O.K.,” the runner replied, reaching up to wipe away a little bit of blood oozing from a cut upon his temple. “I told a couple of punks to get the exhaust on their car straightened out, and so they came back to get me for it. I heard them coming, but I turned around just in time to get this beer bottle in the head,” he demonstrated, picking up an empty McEwan’s bottle. “My head is harder than my quads, though, so they got me in a bad spot: bad for them since it didn’t do any permanent damage… I’ll get those suckers…”

“What’s your name?”

The runner gripped Chris’ arm tightly as he helped him limp back down the road to the Oaks.

“Oh—aa … Bill.”

“Mine’s Chris. What part of the States are you from?”

“The West. Listen, another thing I forgot to tell you is to massage your ankle as much as possible. After you begin running on it,” the runner continued, a brown eye staring at Chris from within a socket distorted by scar tissue, “you should ice it after each run before you take a bath—assuming you have a bath because from what I’ve heard it’s pretty hard to get a shower in this country—and then ice it again after the bath. Got it?”

“Yah, ohh-kayy. You didn’t say what part of the West you’re from.”

“T know I didn’t.”

“The runners I know are all very curious as to who you are. Everyone has seen you running on the heaths at one time or another, but no one seems to know your identity. Why are you so secretive?”

“There’s a lot you and everyone else around here don’t know about me. For personal reasons, I intend to keep it that way.”

“T take it you don’t compete, since no one has ever seen you at a race.”

“Right,” the runner sighed. “Running’s my life. I breathe running. And I’m good, but I don’t want to compete. Besides, people have a big difficulty handling my appearance.”

“T think you’re too hung up on your appearance. It’s true your face is badly scarred and initially people will stare at you, but there are people without legs who would give anything to run like you can. I think you should give competition a try.”

“Oh, I’ve had my day. And I really do have a hard time handling people staring at me like I’m some sort of freak. It may be a hangup, but that’s the way it is. Like tomorrow night I’ll go to my usual vegetarian restaurant where I go on Sunday nights. I just like to have a salad and read my running magazines there, but it’s always a hassle while the waitress and diners get in their furtive glances. No one can deal with me as just a person.”

“O.K., Bill. It’s really none of my business and I didn’t mean to hassle you. I just thought you could use a friend.”

“Sorry, but I guess I’m too much of a loner.”

Chris didn’t know what to say. He sensed the runner to be lying about being a loner, but he could understand his apprehensiveness of being around others. Chris felt some of the same apprehension. He was very lonely. But he didn’t want people coming around and asking him why all he was doing was reading and running. Time was running out and he didn’t want to form any close attachments.

The runner released his arm when they reached the driveway of the Oaks.

“Thanks for stopping to see if I was alright.”

“No problem. How did you know I lived here?”

“Mr.—I was just closing on you downhill one night when you ran into this driveway. Now remember: stay off of the ankle for the next 48 hours, got it?”

“O.K.”

“And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t even mention to anyone that you’ve talked to me. I prefer to remain anonymous. Like I say, my life’s running, and I’m quite accustomed to doing it alone.”

“Sure. Thanks for the help home.”

There was a glint in the runner’s normal right eye as he momentarily smiled. And then he was off down the lane, his one arm clutching a bag of muesli.

The Purple Runner will continue in our May/June issue.