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Solian and Warren get to know each other over a few drinks. Part 5.

Chapter 13

6 “WwW: then, why is it that New Zealand, with a population of only three

million, has come up with so many world-class runners?” Warren asked Solian as the two of them stood outside of the Holly Bush pub in Hampstead in order that Solian avoid the cigarette smoke inside. “Certainly there has to be more than eating a great deal of lamb and dairy products,” he remarked before taking a large gulp from his pint of Lowenbrau.

“It’s true there’s quite a bit more to it than that. New Zealanders have always been good at sport in general, not just athletics, because of tradition, and probably because it’s a hilly country, so you can’t train for any sport without running hilly terrain. Some say it’s the coaches, like Lydiard. But with all due respect to the coaches at home, I think it’s partly the marine air. Supposedly no point in all of New Zealand is further than 70 miles from the ocean, so the entire country gets the benefit of damp, clean air. Most of the pollution gets blown away by constant breezes from one side of the islands or the other. A friend of mine who’s a cyclist says a study was done in Italy proving marine air can greatly improve oxygen uptake.” She paused to take a sip of wine. “Sounds like someone’s asked me that before, doesn’t it, so PII ask you one probably everyone asks: how are the poems coming?”

“Well, as I told you, I have this bet with my friends which I intend to win. The poem I am working on is perhaps more fitting of something written by a lobotomized philistine, but nevertheless it is a poem.”

“What’s it about?” asked Solian, making an attempt to fan away some smoke drifting over from a French tourist.

“Oh, it’s pure rubbish. It’s about two chess players who have decided that the loser of a three-game match between the two of them shall have to remain at his

job while the winner spends six months in any country the loser designates, but that’s as far as I’ve got.”

“Sounds like an interesting competition,” she smiled, leaning against the stone wall of the old pub. “Do you have in mind what country the winner will have to go to?”

“Not yet, but since both competitors are drinkers, it will probably be to a Moslem country where no alcohol is allowed, such as Saudi Arabia. As far as I’m concerned, life’s winners are also life’s losers, and life’s losers are also life’s winners,” he said with a sideward glance at Solian.

She wasn’t sure if she liked that. He didn’t seem to look her in the eyes much, and she had always felt such a trait to be one possessed by insincere men. Warren was very clever, but Americans always tended to be so self-assured and carelessly bold in their statements, tendencies for which she held a love-hate relationship.

“Tt’s my round. Was it Lowenbrau?” she inquired, holding out her hand toward his empty glass.

She waited behind an American tourist with a pair of dark sunglasses and a navy-blue baseball cap with gold braid on its bill. He methodically and dramatically took lengthy puffs on a long black cigar, and from over his shoulder billows of foul smoke blew into her face, causing her to cough.

“Yes, please?”

The man pulled the cigar from his mouth.

“Gimme a draft,” he pronounced in a loud voice.

“Sorry?”

“T’ll have a draft beer.”

“Bitter?”

“Aa—no, no… lager.”

“Pint or half pint?”

“Make it a pint,” he said, taking another puff on his cigar.

Solian felt sorry for Americans. Because of living in splendid isolation with the most material wealth and consumption in the world, they had no international “savoir-faire.” Instead of showing a little deference or making any attempt at assimilating local idiomatic speaking in foreign countries, they were constantly demanding or complaining in loud voices about no hamburgers, no showers, slow service, and other inconveniences in countries with traditions hundreds of years older than their own. They seemed to feel it was their obligation to change the rest of the world to be like America, not aware that the rest of the world not only resented their presumption, but in many cases, did not aspire to their ways. They were too eager and direct, qualities which particularly in England were patently unappreciated. And of course Americans rarely bothered to say “please,” a courtesy important in almost every country of the world. Their mode of dress didn’t help much either: wearing garish colours in England where muted colours were

preferred. Maybe the guy in front of her was an admiral, but Hampstead was nowhere near his vessel. Oh well, at least they have a good sense of humour, are enthusiastic and competitive, and will eventually learn to present a lower profile abroad. Besides, she knew many Kiwis and Aussies behaved and looked far worse. And she believed the English could use a little livening up, anyway.

“Pardon me,” the admiral said before stepping by Solian.

That’s better, she thought as she stepped up to buy her round.

“Cheers,” she said after having handed Warren his pint. “So why did you pick Hampstead as a place to live?”

“Tradition: just like you were talking about before. For hundreds of years London’s fashionable intelligence, as Dickens would call them, have gathered in Hampstead since the waters of the heath became known for their revitalizing powers. Keats, Stevenson, Pavlova, Wilkie Collins, Dickens, and many other literary or artistic illuminati have either lived or hung out here, and still today people like Kingsley Amis and Peter O’Toole carry on the tradition. I guess I’m hoping some of what they have will rub off on me.”

“T don’t blame you. I guess I can say the same about my wanting to come to Europe. It’s easy to win races back home, but you have to run European races if you want to experience real competition. The trouble is, my level is usually not good enough to get invited to the really top international competitions.”

Andy Yelenak

“You’ll just have to train harder,” Warren smiled.

“If I were smart, I wouldn’t drink anymore, but it’s one of my enjoyments. I keep telling myself that I’ve got to train harder, and that the only way I’m going to do that is to give up drinking and lose weight, but then there’s always another beer or glass of wine.”

“Maybe you’re taking it too seriously. You’ve got to get some enjoyment out of life. Perhaps you should be satisfied with your level of competition and not try to push yourself so hard. Top level competition often requires sacrifices that most competitors aren’t willing to make. It sounds to me like things other than running are too important in your life for you to make those sacrifices.”

“Maybe you’re right. But like in the Bhaji race, I should have been able to beat Tika Bernheinns, but I didn’t. I just let her get away from me. If I had been doing 30 miles a week more, I could have beaten her. I know I could.”

“You probably could have, but do you have those extra 30 miles in you? And what if Tika were running through that race as well? Maybe she could have run a minute faster if she had needed. The point is, she beat you. I still say you strike me as a person whose pattern is set: you’re only willing to go so far, as long as it doesn’t completely interfere with having a good time in life; and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just that there are no alternatives in life with respect to competition. The best are the best because of inborn talent, but more so because of a great deal of long, hard work on arduous paths, paths which most of us— even if we did have the talent—are unwilling to follow. But things could be worse,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Did you see the character in the hat with the scrambled eggs?”

“You mean the man with the admiral’s cap?”

“Yep. He’s one of ma fellow countramen, and it gets mighty tiring seeing your fellow citizens making asses of themselves abroad—not that I’m incapable of same, but at least I make some sort of effort to blend in.”

“Mmm, I know what you mean. He stood in front of me at the bar. I guess things could be worse. Like the fact that most New Zealanders and other Commonwealth members have lost their rights and privileges here in England. Some of them have lived here for years and never bothered to apply for permanent residency because it was unnecessary. Previously you could stay as long as you wanted, but now Commonwealth members are being treated like any other foreigners, meaning that six months or a year is all they get. One friend of mine had lived here nine years and just got asked to leave.”

“Mmm. Well, unemployment’s the same everywhere. No country wants people coming in to seek jobs. Times are tough all over. Fortunately I don’t plan on giving the matter much of my future attention.”

That was another thing about the American she didn’t like. Not only did most Americans have better-paying jobs and more money than other peoples of the

world, but Warren seemed to have enough that he had never really had to worry. At least he had worked as an attorney even though he hadn’t had to, she thought.

But these distractions were interrupted by hunger pangs, most probably from having eaten nothing since her 22-mile Heathgate run that morning. Normally she ate only toast and drank tea before her morning run, with perhaps a salad or vegemite sandwich for lunch, most of her calories being replaced at tea—or dinner, as the American called it.

“Would you like another glass of wine or are you getting hungry?”

“Actually, I am getting quite hungry,” she laughed as they both listened to her stomach growl.

“Do you still want to do Italian, or would you prefer that vegetarian place you mentioned?”

“You mean Manna?”

“Mmm.”

“Tt does have candles .. . and lovely puddings.”

“Manna it is.”

Manna was a warm, wood-panelled restaurant with long oaken tables shared by diners. Patrons tended to be lean and quiet, huddling by candlelight and eating inventive salads, whole meal biscuits, rice-and-vegetable dishes, and puddings, such as apple crumble or blackberry tart, with double cream. Solian asked to be seated in the narrow room for non-smokers in the back of the restaurant, and as the two of them were sitting down she spotted Elizabeth MacGregor and her boyfriend, Edward, sitting at the end of the table.

“Come down here for a minute, Warren, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Solian said, motioning him to follow. “Hi, Elizabeth. I thought you were still over in Enschede.”

“Oh, no,” Elizabeth smiled with her hint of Scottish accent. “Actually I came back Monday last.”

“Td like you to meet Warren Fowles. Warren, this is Elizabeth MacGregor and—hi, Edward—Edward Miller,” she said, hellos being traded back and forth. “So how’d you go?”

“Oh, not well, I’m afraid. It was very hot, you know, and I don’t run well in the heat. I came sixth in 3:01. I got a lovely pair of binoculars as a prize, though. How did you go in the Brinjal Bhaji?”

“TI came second. Tika Bernheinns won.”

“Oh, Tika Bernheinns. She’s good. What were your times?”

“T was 38:02 and she was about five seconds ahead of me.”

“Mmm, that’s good, isn’t it?” Elizabeth said enthusiastically. “Are you a runner as well, Warren?”

“T get out there from time to time, but I haven’t done much lately.”

“He ran the 7-mile as well,” Solian said, looking at Warren. “You ran 38:20, didn’t you?”

“Somewhere around there.”

“Mmm. Are you pleased?” Elizabeth asked.

“I was pleased to be able to make the starting line, considering the previous evening’s intake of spirits.”

“38:20’s a lot better than I could do,” remarked Edward. “I can’t even run ten kilometers in that time.”

“We’d ask you to join us, if there were room …” Elizabeth trailed off, indicating with her eyes that there were too many people to bother to ask all of them to move down. “Jill and I are going on a long run tomorrow up along Dollis Creek, if you want to come along. It might be too slow for you, though. It’ll probably be about 18 miles from Parliament Hill.”

Solian had just done a long run that morning, but she felt it would be good to go on a run with Elizabeth and also knew the pace would be easy: around 7:00-7:30.

“What time are you going?”

“We’ll probably get over to Parliament Hill at around eleven-thirty, I should think.”

“Alright. I’d like that. I’ll be there at eleven-thirty,” Solian replied before they all traded polite goodbyes. “See you, then.”

An hour later Solian had consumed a salad featuring hazelnuts, carrots, and raisins, and was well along into a main course of bean stroganoff, when she noticed the person hunched over on the other side of the two disciples of Brinjal Bhaji sitting beside Warren and herself. It was the runner with the badly scarred face, and he was devouring a large plate of vegetables and rice while intently reading a folded magazine resting next to his plate. The glint of the candle he had placed next to the magazine to illuminate it shone onto the lightly scarred right side of his face, the other side concealed like the dark side of the moon. He’s actually quite handsome, she thought. She liked the rugged line of his jaw, the high cheekbone, and his full, sensuous lips. One deep brown eye intensely stared down at the magazine, and occasionally he impatiently brushed aside a forelock of lengthy brown hair to press on a small flesh-coloured bandage on his temple. He was eating alone. She wished she could invite him to join them, but there was nowhere for him to sit without asking the Bhajis to shift all of their food, and the runner seemed quite intent upon his magazine, anyway.

“You seem preoccupied,” Warren said upon noticing her stare into vacant space.

“Sorry,” she replied, returning her gaze back to Warren, “but there is a runner in a hooded sweatshirt sitting just on the other side of the person next to you

who is really good.” She paused, leaning toward Warren to reduce her voice to a whisper. “He has a badly scarred face. I keep seeing him out on the heaths, but no one seems to know anything about him. If you see him out there, you won’t be able to believe how fast he runs.”

Warren discreetly looked to his left.

“T can’t see him. Sorry.”

When the two of them finally finished their puddings of apple crumble and banana cake, the mysterious runner had departed without drawing their attention. Warren had insisted upon ordering a bottle of Riesling, of which Solian had had only one glass, so the two of them continued to chat by candlelight while Warren finished the bottle. Elizabeth and Edward got up to leave.

“Did you see who was eating dinner at the end of the table?” Elizabeth softly asked Solian.

“Yes, and I was surprised to see that he looked almost handsome with the left side of his face in shadow.”

“Mmm, it is a shame, isn’t it. He comes in here quite often, you know,” Elizabeth continued, having leaned over slightly so her head was nearer to their level. “One evening after asking if he didn’t run on the heaths a great deal, we invited him to join us. But he politely declined and immediately went back to the magazine he was reading. He has an American accent, though.”

“Strange guy,” Edward added.

“T feel sorry for him as well,” Solian whispered. “He seems so alone.”

The others nodded while Warren was taking a last swallow of wine.

“This guy playing chess with you in the photo,” Solian observed as she stood in front of one of the photographs in Warren’s flat twenty minutes later, “I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

“Really?” Warren answered perfunctorily before reentering the huge parlour with a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream and two glasses. He handed her a glass and held up the bottle.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t.”

“Just one is no worse than those sugary desserts we just had,” he stated convincingly. Warren glanced up at the photograph. “I haven’t seen that guy in more than fifteen years. That match was played when I first arrived in Oregon. But I doubt if you would have seen that guy. The last thing I heard about him was that he was living in Los Angeles.”

“IT know where I’ve seen him,” she suddenly remembered. “That red hair. He was on the Heathgate Harriers’ Sunday run.”

“Are you sure it was the same guy?”

“Well, I can’t be sure . . . his hair is a bit longer now, but it does look like

“Mmm. Well, it sure would be good to see old Carlson again,” Warren mused aloud while she examined more of the artwork and photographs upon the walls. “T wonder if he’s living in London?”

“Oh, I should say he is, if he’s the same person.”

Solian continued around the room, temporizing with the kinds of chatter to which she always resorted when she sensed a compromising situation coming. She liked the American’s boldness, but worried about his somewhat dissolute lifestyle, and she could sense that—particularly in view of the after-dinner liqueur—he had more in mind with her than a good chat. It occurred to her that he most probably had heard that all girls from Down Under loved to party, as indeed many Australian, and for that matter, many Kiwi girls, did. Solian told herself she had to hold the line at one liqueur. Any more and she could forget the long training run the following morning she had agreed to do with Elizabeth and Jill.

“You must play a lot of chess,” she said, plopping down at one extreme of a blue velvet couch while Warren turned over the Jean Luc Ponty album which had been playing.

“Actually, I haven’t played much lately, but I do like a good game. I hope to go down to Prompt Corner for some contests soon. Do you know it?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. In fact, I’ve only played chess several times in my life,” she answered as Warren gently sat down on the middle of the couch. Such positionings were always so obvious, yet she knew that if it were the right person making such a move at the right time, she could feel quite good about an impending approach. In the case of Warren, handsome though he seemed to her, she was unsure of his character and felt she hadn’t known him long enough, anyway. Solian felt herself gradually becoming more tense. “Is Prompt Corner a chess club?”

“No, it’s a cafe,” Warren answered, putting his arm up on the back of the couch, “but it’s been known for years as a gathering place for chess players. At any time of the day you can usually find several games in progress. It’s just down near South End Green.”

While he continued talking she mused at how such a little thing as an arm being placed upon the back of a couch could so interrupt her ability to concentrate on what was being said. /’// say I’ve got to go soon.

“~.. but chess really is one of the few games which allows no excuses for physical injuries: only mental lapses cause the loss of a chess game,” Warren asserted, stretching out his hand in invitation as she looked at him.

Solian rebuked herself for her weakness. She knew what he was up to, but like a person staring into the eyes of a snake and desiring what was no good for her, allowed him to pull her toward him.

“T really should be . . . going soon,” she half-heartedly said while moving. But he began to kiss her. Solian might have pulled back, but his kiss wasn’t the groping, deep kiss she’d expected, but rather quite gentle, and it had been weeks

since she had been kissed by anyone. London seemed to be a very difficult place to meet people. Still, she knew that ultimately only another serious runner would be good for her. They, more than most men, appreciated a thin figure and small breasts. Yet here she was again, in the arms of another tangent to her development as arunner. Ah well, at least he sometimes runs.

“Would you like one more glass?” Warren smiled at her while they both tried to recover their composures.

This is it, she told herself. The discipline now, or never.“No thanks. I’ never be able to make that run with Elizabeth tomorrow if I have another one,” she replied, climbing to her feet. “I’ve really enjoyed this evening, but I must be going.”

“Are you sure?” he inquired, awkwardly rising to his feet.

“Yes, but thank you for a lovely evening.”

“Well, at least let me walk you to your car.”

“You needn’t bother,” she smiled. “It’s just at the top of Well Walk.”

“Come on then,” he insisted, shepherding her toward the door.

Passing the old Campden Baths, now converted into flats, she became preoccupied with what might happen when they reached her car. Solian didn’t want to be off-putting, but she knew he was not someone with whom she should become involved. It was a shame, though. Such London streets could be so quiet and romantic late at night, with their muted street lamps and views through elevated windows of book-lined libraries and garrets, interiors illuminated by warm yellow light.

When they reached the car they began to chat about nothing, in the usual fashion of two people faced with an awkward parting. Solian noticed a strange sight in front of The Flask, the Hampstead pub noted as a habitat for writers.

“Thanks for coming along tonight, Solian,” Warren said, his remark and the opening of her car door interrupting her observation.

“My pleasure,” she replied, turning to face him. The two stood in the dark shadows of the street as Solian lowered her voice.

“Strange time of night to be doing that, don’t you think?” she observed, motioning with her eyes toward the lady photographer hunched over a camera and tripod, the object of her photograph apparently a tramp gesticulating to himself while lying beside the front wall of the pub.

“Mmm,” Warren nodded after a lengthy pause for surveillance. “I guess some people will do anything for a photograph,” he laughed before giving her a quick kiss. “I hope that liqueur doesn’t affect tomorrow’s run too much.”

She climbed into her car and shut the door behind her.

“Thank you again for this evening, and I shouldn’t worry about that liqueur if I were you,” she smiled. “Good night.”

“Good night,” he said, briefly leaning through the window to kiss her again.

As she drove away Solian glanced in her rear-view mirror and noticed that Warren was making no attempt to walk back to his flat, but rather just stood

there. Then she observed him begin to walk toward the pub. Ah well, she thought, perhaps he just wants to see what the tramp does.

Chapter 14

One week later Chris placed his right forefoot up on the cedar dresser in his tiny front room, then carefully wound an elastic bandage back and forth in a figure eight pattern over and around his ankle. He had stayed off it for three days, then on successive days had run four, six, and eight miles with only mild pain tending to subside during each run. The only time he had seen the mysterious runner during that period had been early one evening while Chris was walking across the heath to Hampstead. The runner, attired in purple singlet and shorts and wearing a tiny bandage upon his forehead, had become visible while barreling down a ridge below Kenwood.

That morning Chris thought he would try ten miles, though unsure if maybe that wouldn’t be pushing it a bit. The first few steps of jogging down the bushlined gravel drive leading to the lower entrance from Fitzroy Park gently let him know he was still running on an injured ankle. A drawback to living near the heaths was that Chris could never begin a run on a flat surface, meaning hazardous starts for injured or cold legs.

The morning was crisp for a late spring day, and overcast as well, two perfect conditions for running. Soon his ankle actually began to feel quite decent, and the Doberman being nowhere to be seen, Chris’ spirits began to pick up by the time he reached the point at the end of Fitzroy Park where he had to decide whether to run downhill between the Highgate Lakes or along the cinder alley threading up to Kenwood.

Just after opting for the latter since he could then run out along Dollis Creek for a change, he saw several women running up from between the lakes. That’s Solian, Chris thought, immediately wishing he had worn his New Zealand Splits shorts making him look thinner. Solian and two girls he remembered from Heathgate Sunday runs, Elizabeth and Sascha, were climbing the blacktop path toward him. Elizabeth was known for being a very good marathoner reputed to run no more than 70 miles per week. Her training partner, Sascha Brixton, was a half-Russian, half-West Indian lady who although having greater speed than Elizabeth over ten miles, fell prey to the flying Scot as the distances became longer. Together the three made quite an odd combination, with one being tall, dark-complected, and having curly blond hair; another being of medium height, chocolate-skinned, and having a dark, curly natural; and the third being short and extremely fair-skinned, with brown tresses streaming below her shoulders. This is your big chance to meet Solian, Chris told himself. Go for it.

The girls all beamed smiles and hellos at him as their paths converged.

“Hi, how far are you going?” he asked.

“Oh, we’re running out to Mill Hill if you fancy coming along,” Elizabeth replied with a smile. She seemed to be breathing with a little difficulty, giving Chris reassurance that the group wouldn’t be going too fast for him. “Do you know Solian and Sascha?”

“T’ve seen both of them on runs, but we’ve never really met. Hello,” he grinned.

“So how’s the ankle, then?” asked Elizabeth.

“Much better, thanks. How’d you know it was injured?”

“Oh, Terrence said he had seen you out on the heath several days ago.”

Chris was always amazed at the rapidity with which news traveled amongst runners: but then it occurred to him how much runners traveled. Soon Elizabeth and Sascha were chatting in front of him, both of them moving along with short, choppy strides. Solian on the other hand, seemed to be just short of lounging along, as if she could hardly go any slower. He looked over to her to say something and she smiled.

“So you’re from New Zealand, I hear.”

“That’s right, and you’re from Los Angeles.”

“Right, but how’d you know?”

“Believe it or not, I saw a picture of you over at a friend’s place in Hampstead. You were playing chess with him in the photo.”

“Who could that have been?” Chris wondered aloud.

“Warren Fowles.”

“He lives here? I’ll have to get his number from you. What’s he doing here?”

“Writing poetry. What about you? Why did you leave the sun in Los Angeles? Everyone here wants to go there.”

“T came over here to run. | lack talent, but I love to run and I think England’s the best place in the world for the three R’s: reading, writing, and running. So here I am.”

“And you’re doing some writing as well?”

“No. I probably should be, but right now I’m just reading a lot, running, and living on savings.”

“Sounds like a pleasant way to live.”

Chris began to pant a little as they climbed the path winding up by Kenwood to the North Wood.

“What about you?”

“In a way I suppose I’m here for one of the same reasons. I want to see what the best competition is like in Europe, if I can get the chance. Now all I have to do is to get good enough to get invited to some of the meets.”

“T heard you did quite well in the Brinjal Bhaji 7.”

“Mm. Unfortunately it’s a relatively low-key race. I doubt if anyone will take much notice of it. Elizabeth thinks she can get me some invitations, though. But it seems like it’s hard to get publicity without running marathons these days, doesn’t it?”

“Absolutely. Everyone knows Grete Waitz, Allison Roe, and Rob de Castella. Have you ever done a marathon, or do you do shorter distances?”

“T think for the present I’ll stick with the shorter distances between 3,000 and 10,000 meters since I’ve never run a good marathon. If I do well enough, I may try another marathon in February or March.”

“Do New Zealand athletes have as much trouble with their federation as Americans have with TAC in terms of getting their money?”

“Not really. The NZAAA doesn’t really concern itself too much with what’s earned in the States, and there’s not too much prize money available down in New Zealand. Some of the girls have complained about their selection methods and training grant authorizations, though. In a small country where a handful of runners get heaps of publicity, there does tend to be favoritism. But in terms of making an income, although I’ve only been offered legitimate expense money on several occasions, I have to agree with the girls: why shouldn’t a person be allowed to make an income from running? Why should Lorraine or Anne run for expenses in New Zealand—or small purses—when they can make good incomes racing in the States? They’re getting older no matter where they race.”

“Ve-ry true,” Chris puffed, struggling to keep up with Solian. “Do you think— ARRA’s going to succeed?”

“T don’t know. I tend to doubt it, though. The flaw in the whole arrangement seems to me to be that athletes are athletes until they become older. Eventually they quit training to work, unless they’re retired. And then ARRA will become just what the TAC system already is: old men who want the power to tell young men and women what to do, to hold the purse strings for those activities, and to have the ability to take free trips to athletic meetings. Actually I think the runners and the governing bodies both have legitimate complaints. Existing federations should retain administrative powers, because ultimately very few athletes are going to have either the time or the inclination to do the work. And if you’re unwilling to officiate or administer, you should temper your complaining and give credit where credit is due.

“But the athletes are right to complain about abuses of power when it comes to administrators applying pressures on specific athletes to run in specific meetings. I think the athletes should be allowed prize money, a small percentage of which—say ten per cent—should go to the governing bodies’ coffers towards providing perks such as travel expenses for officials and administrators, but more importantly toward annual grants and travel expenses for those up-and-coming

competitors who can demonstrate they are making less than a certain amount of money for the year.”

Chris was having a difficult time paying attention to everything Solian was saying, because the pace had gradually crept up to around 7:15-per-mile, one which he should have been able to handle, except for the hills and his ankle. And he was getting the old nauseous feeling he periodically got from taking the drugs for his condition.

“… fortunate in that I don’t need a lot of money, but many of the girls find it quite difficult to train while working at the same time. Back home I was working two part-time jobs and still trying to maintain a social life at the same time, and you know how that goes.”

“Mm-huh,” Chris agreed, thankful that the trail had leveled enough so he could regain his breath. “Except my problem back in the States was working too many hours—not that I’m very competitive anyway—but I would have liked the opportunity to take my running more seriously. You always hear about runners who are working two jobs, maintaining an active social life, and getting the miles in running to and from work and during lunch hours, but it’s not the sort of thing most runners can handle. Most serious runners are spending their time running, eating, and sleeping. Their social lives revolve around eating and drinking—”

Elizabeth had drifted back to ask Solian a question, an interruption Chris hoped would be only temporary. He was worried, though: afraid he was going to have to drop off the pace soon. His ankle was becoming worse. The speed at which they were running was still just a cruise for Solian, and chances were Sascha, also able to handle a much faster pace since she had run a 57-minute ten miles, and Elizabeth would pick it up quite a bit as they descended from Spaniards Road down through the Sandy Heath and out across the Heath Extension.

“T hope this pace isn’t too slow for you, Solian,” Elizabeth said, her legs moving at almost twice the cadence of the taller girl.

“No, this is fast enough. I like to take it easy for several days after races, anyway.”

Take it easy, Chris smirked to himself. That was a laugh. Seven minutes per mile and she was just taking it easy; but then she only weighed eight-and-a-half stone to his thirteen. Still he knew that runners only went by the clock. Fitness per body weight was ultimately meaningless. Final race time for a given distance was the only true calling card in running. ““What’s your best time?” was the question that always separated the truth from all the waffling and prevarications. Sure, you could blame a poor best time on too many weeks of injury, working too hard, or lack of time to train, but everyone knew the real truth: those with the fastest times for any given distance were the best runners. The clock told no lies and gave no excuses: it just displayed certain numerals as runners crossed the finish line. No

matter that you ran your first mile in 5:20, or hit the halfway point in a very fast time. Ultimately, it was who crossed the line first.

Before Chris knew it he was hanging on for dear life while the girls chatted amicably. He was trying hard to remain in the slipstream by running about a yard behind their wall of three, but his breathing was becoming more and more labored while the group continued on through the streets of Hampstead Garden Suburb at perhaps a 6:55-per-mile pace.

However, soon Chris’ ankle starting feeling better and so he hung on, hoping against hope that for some reason they would decide to slow down after they crossed the Finchley Road and began the long winding path along Dollis Creek. It was a losing proposition for him, though, because even if he were able to hang in there with them along the creek, he would still have to get back. After threeand-a-half miles it was already difficult enough for him to keep with the pace; if he stayed with them he knew he’d have to run at least another eleven or twelve miles. Chris was also aware they could hear his labored breathing, assuring that none of them was going to drift back to talk to him. Either he was able to stay with them or he wasn’t, but they were out there to train, not to dawdle along to accommodate someone below their standards. Chris picked it up until he was running just behind their shoulders again.

Andy Yelenak

“T think I’m going to… slow down a bit .. . my ankle’s beginning to tighten up… and this is a bit… too fast for me. Thanks for the run though . . . I’ll hope to run with you when the ankle’s better.”

“Oh, O.K.,” Elizabeth and the others smiled in tacit acknowledgment of his decision. “Bye, Chris.”

“Hope your ankle feels better,” chimed Solian.

A great sense of relief came over him as he let his pace sag and they gradually pulled away from him. He was pleased that Solian had said something about his ankle. That was nice.

“Oh, no!” he suddenly moaned aloud. He had forgotten to arrange another meeting with Solian. Long group runs were very much like life itself: you had to be quick or there could be missed opportunities. A runner could be beside you one minute and gone the next. Chris found arranging to do another run to be the best insurance of meeting a female runner again, because you could never assume you would pass her again on another run at the same time of day. You just had to be swift in obtaining her phone number without appearing too eager.

But he had blown it: let a lady of interest slip away before he could find out how to get in touch with her. Someone in the club doubtlessly would know Solian’s address or telephone number, but then asking for either would be awkward. Although in the States he usually followed up very quickly, Chris felt it was traditional to approach English women a little more subtly. He then deduced the correct approach to a New Zealander must lie somewhere in between; but wondered if a girl of her running abilities could even be interested at all in a runner of his caliber, not to mention his red hair.

“You shouldn’t let these gairls run away from you like that, laddie,” a lean chap in black nylon shorts and vest suddenly said, pulling up next to Chris. A musty odor emanated from the man which immediately made Chris think of him as an old-school runner: one who didn’t worry about what anyone thought of his personal appearance; one who was just a runner. “A man yair age should be able to handle sooch a pace. I was watchin’ you from behind and thinkin’ how you’ve got no speed. Yai’re too big for a rooner, that’s what you are. How much do y’ weigh, laddie?”

“About thirteen stone.”

“T should say you’d be a wee bit better if you weighed eleven stune six. Are you a saireous runner?”

“T tell myself I am, but I’m not very good. My best 10K time is only 37:22.”

“T’m not sairprised. I’Il slow m’ pace duwn and we’ll roon a spell together. Yair from America, | take it?”

“California.”

“Aye. Well, you’ll find it a wee bit different roonin’ over here, lad, if you havena already. And you know what the secrut is? Poverty. That’s what it is, laddie.

Myself, I was made redundant after thairtee years. But it doesna bother me. I’ve got the heaths an’ m’ runnin’. But poverty’s the secret, m’lad. Most of the people on these muddy islands starve themselves so’s to afford a fortnight’s holiday on some bloody island in the sun than to eat properly. They doana eat mooch, mind you. An egg here, some milk there and maybe some fish or meat once in a while, but thair portions are wee ones. And most of what they get is used up in the cold damp. Comin’ from America you’ve grown up with bad habits. You’ve allowed yairself t’ carry an extra stune and a half around with y’ for yairs. Imagine roonin’ with four sacks of potatoes in yair arms, because that’s what yair tryin’ t’ dew. No wondair you canna keep up with those gairls, ay?”

“True, and the sad part about it is that I’ve already lost ten pounds from what my weight was at age sixteen: the supposed ideal age for weight calculation. I was on a swimming team at the time.”

“T’m not sairprised. Americans eat too fast and they eat too mooch. But never mind all that. What are y’ goin’ t’ do with yair roonin’, son?”

“Td like to break three hours in the Greater London Marathon—if I can get in.”

“You’ll get in, or my name’s not Watson Doyle from Glazgoh,” the man replied, while briefly turning aside to blow out a sinus onto the grass while still running. Chris couldn’t help but smile to himself over the Scotsman’s haircut— close-shaved on the sides and back with just the forelock a little longer, giving him an appearance of a wiry non-commissioned officer of some sort. “How old are you, lad?”

43g »

“A well-presairved one, too. Well, what would you say if I was t’ tell you you could run under 2:30 for a marathon?”

“Td say you’re crazy.”

“Aye. You would. But let me just tell you that you could roon under 2:30. I’m 53 yairs of age and I can roon a 2:30. Now do y’ not think there’s any reason why a lad sooch as yairself canna roon faster? I’ve got no great speed. How many miles a week are you roonin’?”

“About 70.”

“Aye, and that’s why you’re racin’ like you are. If you were to roon 70 miles per week at a very fast pace then you might race well, but I should reckon yai’re probably roonin’ those miles at aboot eight minutes pair mile mostly, am I not right?”

“Mm-huh, except for occasional faster runs of about 7:15 per mile.”

“Aye. So it’s no sairprise that yair roonin’ the way you are, then. I roon 150 miles pair week with nune of them on the flat, and nune of them slower than aboot seven pair mile. So you see it’s just as that fellow Parker said in his book: it’s ‘the trials of th’ miles, and miles of trials.’”

Chris felt a certain amount of shame. Here was a man more than fifteen years older than he who could run so much better.

“But did you run in your school days?”

“Aye. I was an inter-schools’ champion.”

“Well, there my argument comes into play: that you take any great athlete and you’ll find that he set his arteries as a child. I didn’t start running until I was 29, and you already know from my size that my diet was very high in fats and large in portions all through those years. Some say that plaque built up in the arteries is irreversible; I don’t say that, but I do think there’s a limit as to how much screwed up arteries can be corrected after a certain age, not to mention heart and lung size.”

“Rubbish. You may have to wairk twice as hard as a fellow who has had that sort of backgroond, but if you shed those pounds from outside, you’ll also shed them from inside. I even read aboot one chap named … Heiden… berg… Steve Heidenreich—that’s it—from one of yair central states, who was in a car accident and they told him he’d never walk again. Less than two yairs later he’s runnin’ a 31-minute ten kilometers, is he not?”

“Right.” Chris was amazed at how smoothly the Scot was running beside him as they glided along the winding blacktop path next to Dollis Creek. He hadn’t planned on running that far, but there was a certain galvanic quality about the man which kept Chris from worrying about finishing the run.

“Tt’s a question of the will, son. That’s why I asked you just how far you want t’ take yair runnin’. If you want t’ break three hours for the marathon, I could help you reach that goal if you like, but you must be willin’ to listen and t’ wairk hard. I think you’ve got the desire or you wouldn’t be out here on a weekday morning puttin’ in the miles by yair self, am I not right?”

“Well, I guess so. My problem is that I like to eat and drink beer, so I never seem to be able to lose the weight.”

“What if I was t’ tell you that you could continue to eat and drink the same amounts and still lose weight. You could, but mind you, you’d have t’ get up t’ 100-120 miles pair week. If you do, that’II take at least a pound a week off you, I guarantee.”

“Tt sounds good, but the more I train, usually the hungrier I get,” Chris replied, deciding to suppress the mentioning of his repairing ankle.

“T tell you what, laddie, I’m going to pick up my pace now, but if you fancy a cuppa tea later this afternoon, yai’re welcome to pop over at aboot four o’clock. I live just across the bridge over the North London Line tracks below Parliament Hill. Number 13B in the Constantine Road.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’ll try to stop in.”

“All right, then. If you can stop in, we’ll chat about gettin’ you under three hours.” He lifted one hand in a brief wave and then was off, his sinewy legs stretching out into a stride which left Chris feeling like a running cripple.

That afternoon the American sat slumped in a chair in front of the tiny blackand-white television his Scottish student neighbors had lent him, blankly staring at a show on gardening. He had only run ten miles and his ankle was just vaguely sore, but the cumulative fatigue from that effort and the previous day’s miles had left him virtually a vegetable. Earlier he had attempted to read a little of Wilkie Collins’ The Woman In White, but had been just too tired. Concentration on the TV was even difficult: the Scotsman’s words kept haunting him.

Still, Chris wasn’t sure if he wanted to go over to Watson Doyle’s place for tea. It might imply some sort of obligation to follow whatever plan he devised for him, something he had very ambivalent feelings about. On the one hand Chris certainly had never been able to improve dramatically by disciplining himself, but then on the other hand he had always enjoyed the freedom of doing what he wanted when he wanted. However, the Scotsman was right: it just depended upon how far he wanted to take his running.

Yet he was alone in his dimly lit flat. Knowing what he knew about the ultimate condition of his health, he decided accepting the offer to tea might be just the ticket to buoy his spirits and give some new direction to his running, even if he did eventually decide that being coached by the Scotsman might be a bit too much to handle.

Two hours later, promptly at four o’clock, Chris found himself standing in front of a narrow red brick building sandwiched between two others. Inside an archway were three doors with stained-glass windows, the center one of which had a large 13B above it. Chris was about to knock when he noticed the door was ajar.

“Is anybody home?” he yelled up the stairway after pushing open the door a bit further.

“Aye, come on up,” came a distant voice from somewhere above.

Inside the top flat Chris was quite surprised. The place looked like a trashed-out running museum. Old stuffed chairs abounded here and there in groups throughout a large, high-ceilinged room, giving an impression that the ornate chamber was actually a series of rooms. Giant stacks of running magazines stood along one wall, while makeshift bookshelves displayed hundreds of books and pamphlets of all descriptions, many of them tomes on athletics. In one corner could be seen perhaps ten pairs of well-used running shoes of many brands and colors. Running T-shirts in various states of dampness—from which emanated the same musty aroma Chris had noticed on the run—hung from wall pegs, were draped over chair backs, or were wadded up in piles on shelves or the floor. Framed certificates, medals, photographs, competition numbers, and myriad other running memorabilia covered the walls. Doyle himself sat huddled in a chair putting some Shoe Goo onto the heels of one of his running shoes. He was still wearing his black nylon running shorts, but had changed into a dry London-Brighton T-shirt.

The Scotsman abruptly set the tube down on a shelf amidst an array of tarnished silver cups and trophies which filled an entire case.

“Shouldn’t really do this sort of thing, you know. When the heel of a shoe is worn doon the rubber cooshioning under it is usually no good as well, but when you weigh as little as I do, and have roon as long as I have, you try to make shoes last longer than they should!”

He gave the shoe a cursory glance, then set it down atop the trophy case.

“Well, this is it, laddie. My home. There’s not mooch to her, but when yair livin’ on the dole, you doana have mooch choice. I still enjoy life. I doana get many holidays abroad anymore, and I doana get to have many meals out, but I doana bother. Let me poot the kettle on,” the wiry fellow said, darting into a little alcove at one end of the room, undoubtedly his kitchen.

Five minutes later the two were sitting in front of tea and bickies: a pot of tea, cups and saucers, milk, spoons, and a tray of shortbread biscuits. The Scotsman put his legs up after pouring them each a cup and seemed to gaze pensively at his bookshelves.

“Now then, lad, what’s yair diet like?”

“Well, I don’t eat much red meat, but I eat some chicken and fish and a lot of grains. Also, I gave up drinking when I came over here. I was only drinking moderate amounts of beer and wine, but I gave them both up for health reasons.”

“That’s too bad. Beer is sairtenly a gude roonin’ fuel — not that too much of it’s vera gude for you, mind you, but one or two pints a day is vera sociable. Do y’ drink mooch coffee or tea?”

“T suppose three or four cups a day.”

“One thing I’ve lairned from many yairs of talkin’ to harriers everywhere is that no one diet is ideal fair every rooner. You’ve got to find what wairks best fair you. Fair some that means drinkin’ beer and eatin’ chips, while fair others it means salads, seeds, and noots. Moost rooners do best on a lot of carbohydrates and only small amoonts of fat, though you’d never know that in England. I asked you about coffee and tea because soom people are vera sensitive to caffeine, and it confounds their blude sugar levels. Do you have any rooners to train with?”

“Not really. I ran with Elizabeth and Sasch, two girls fr—”

“Aye. I know the two. I’m a member of the Heathgate Harriers, myself, you know. Watch oot fair those two lassies. They’ll wheedle you into thinkin’ they roon slowly and then roon you into the ground. It’s a favorite game of theirs. No, they’re a wee bit too fast fair you right now, lad, and if I wair you, I’d try and find someone who’s just a little bit faster than you are, sooch as my neighbour Patrick Provis. He’s a member of Heathgate as well, and a former roogby player. Now he’s also aboot thirteen stone and the two of you might be able to help each other. But never mind that fair now. How mooch time do you have to train?”

“Unlimited. I’m just over here living on savings to experience the running.”