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Solian chucks Warren in pursuit of her noble running goals. Part 6.

Chapter 15

Ts streamed down Solian’s face as she sat on the waterbed at 6:30 a.m. on a cold, late September Saturday morning.

“What’s wrong?” asked Warren, sitting up to put his arm around her.

“Nothing,” she replied, continuing to sob softly.

Solian had been seeing Warren off and on for three months against her better judgment. At first she had refused a second encounter, but with his gradual, but persistent invitations to various dinners and plays, she had finally agreed. She longed and would have preferred to see a serious runner on a steady basis, but the single English runners she had met—and there were few unattached—were all shorter than she, or not of interest. During the summer she had been introduced to many international runners at races on the continent, but only several of them shorter than she had asked for her company. The taller, English-speaking men seemed to prefer several encounters before asking for a phone number, or else were too shy.

Her running had suffered from her twice-weekly get togethers with Warren. They always drank wine, resulting in a cutback in her weekly mileage and the loss of the cutting edge of her speed. Solian had continued to pull thirds, fourths, and fifths in races which often she should have won. And the two invitations she had got to run in an international track meet in France and a road race in Holland had ended in disaster when she faded badly. She had done it again: got in with a bad influence, and chosen him over her running.

“T think I’m going.”

“But why? It’s only six-thirty in the morning, and your race isn’t until two o’clock this afternoon.”

“I know,” she sniffed, “but I’m leaving anyway.”

“But why? What’s wrong with you?”

She wiped her nose on a tissue. “You’re what’s wrong with me.”

“What do you mean?” Warren incredulously asked.

“T mean every time I go out with you I end up drinking too much. I should never have agreed to see you again. When I came here from New Zealand I promised myself that I would never see a man again who would be a bad influence on me; that I was coming to England to test my running. And what have I done?” she sobbed. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? You’ve really done well in your racing,” Warren placated, brushing the hair back from her eyes. “Besides, I’ve only been seeing you twice a week. It isn’t as if we’re out getting drunk every night of the week. Don’t you think you’re taking this whole thing too seriously?”

She shook her head. “You have no idea how much drinking alcohol affects your training for the next several days.”

“T think I’ve got a pretty good id—”

“You’ve never been on a run with me when my lungs are without the effects of wine—oh, it’s pointless! I’m going.”

“C’mon, Solian. Pull yourself together,” Warren urged, hugging her to him.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” she answered hoarsely, tilting her head away as he tried to kiss her. Warren again tried to calm her by squeezing her against his side.

“You can just skip the wine the next time we go out.”

“No. That’s it,” she said, pulling away from him and climbing out of his bed with conviction. “The final straw. You’re the last man I’m going to see who’s not a serious runner.”

Hastily Solian began to dress in her Mexican muslin blouse and jeans. Only the sounds of cloth sliding down over firm breasts and a zipper tightening denim around slender hips broke the silence in the room. She stood there for a moment looking down at Warren.

“T’ve discussed drinking over and over with you, and you’re never going to change. You’re a wealthy man who can drink and write poetry as you like, but you’re not a serious runner and can’t help me to become one, so . . .” she said, clipping on her puka-shell necklace, “. . . it’s on to those Chariots of Fire. Goodbye, Warren.”

There was a damp chill in the air as Solian drove up East Heath Road through the fog. She felt so depressed she wanted to scream. But she knew the only possible way of reducing her depression was action or movement. Since no more action was to be taken, that left movement. A walk was what she needed.

She parked the car near Jack Straw’s Castle, a pub destroyed by bombs during World War Two, but later rebuilt (its original having been haunted by Dickens); then slowly made her way across from the White Pond to London’s highest point—six feet higher in elevation than the cross atop the city’s St. Paul Cathedral. Solian took several deep breaths of air in an attempt to rid her mind of depressing thoughts so she could enjoy the moment. However, the vista of London from standing on top of a dilapidated wrought-iron and wood bench, unfortunately, was somewhat obscured by intervening trees and fog.

Thoughts of how she would fare in that afternoon’s cross-country meeting on Parliament Hill began to make her cry again. She felt terrible from the alcohol still within the temple of her body, and had been able to tell merely by her walk from the car that her condition was not going to lend itself to racing well.

“Oh, mighty queen,” she melodramatically exhorted Queen Boadicea, having remembered the lady was reputed to be buried under the tumulus on the East Heath, “give me the strength to triumph in these adverse times.” And then with a sweeping gesture she continued in a pseudo-stentorian voice, half laughing with false bravado: “Believe that I have the desire but lack the will. Help me to overcome my weaknesses.”

Just as she was going to extend her supplication she noticed a man with closely cropped hair and mustache mincing toward her with a manicured poodle on the end of a lead. This lone figure walking in the dim morning fog caused her briefly to consider what it would be like to be gay. She thought it sad that certain males occasionally felt forced to linger around an area on part of the running loop which took her just below Jack Straw’s on the West Heath. However, he quickly disappeared into the mist, and her thoughts returned to what Warren was thinking at that very moment. She was hopelessly attracted to such irresponsible sorts, yet still believed there had to be someone out there as handsome as Warren, but serious about his running.

A wave of satisfaction suddenly flowed through her: she had made her decision and now felt she had the courage to stick by it. She even began to psych herself for the day’s race. Tika Bernheinns would be there and so would Paula Laing, one of the twins, currently one of the U.K.’s best cross-country runners. Whether Solian could use the hills to her advantage against those adversaries remained to be seen.

“Right, then,” she said to herself, remembering action to be the best form of therapy. “Let’s see what we can do.”

In an attempt to steam some of the toxic liquid out of her system she took a hot bath and read the previous weekend’s Sunday Times Magazine. Then in a misting rain she set out on an easy six-miler round the Heath Extension. Virtually no one

was about on the playing fields save for a few dog walkers, frisbee players, and the odd Latin American kicking a football. Solian struggled at a pedestrian pace through multi-coloured foliage round the two-mile perimeter; danced along the edges of muddied football fields; and jogged down the narrow dirt path behind the homes of the Garden Suburb. The hot bath had put her legs right, but her lungs seemed to be choking with congestion, and the alcohol in her system was still making her feel enervated.

The race will be muddy today, she thought. The girls were going to have to go out hard: the course was only one loop, very muddy and hilly, and Solian knew the race would be won by gaining position and then holding it. The last mile and a half would be virtually downhill, so it would be difficult to overtake any runner having the lead by the halfway point. She would have to go out fast and risk certain anaerobic debt, her trump card being her Waitakeres training, a strength she hoped would overcome the physiological disadvantages resulting from the previous evening’s indulgences.

“Good morning to you, Solian,” a man running past her suddenly said. It was the wiry man from the club who everyone had told her could run a 2:30 marathon.

“Phwew,” she blew aloud through her teeth with her eyebrows raised, “he sure could use a bath.” But she was surprised. His legs are thinner than mine, she thought. And even though he looked to be running about a 6:45 pace, he had passed her like she was standing still. God, I must be running slowly! But she didn’t want to tire herself before the race; she just wanted to run slowly enough to burn out the alcohol. Yet somehow her 7:15 pace was feeling exhausting: not auguring well for the afternoon’s contest.

Solian arrived late at the Lido, the large swimming facility beside the Parliament Hill playing fields from which the cross-country race would begin, but she already had her gear on beneath her black tracksuit.

“Gooday, Elizabeth,” Solian said to the diminutive lady as the two met on the grass near the registration tables.

“Hi, Solian. How’s your training been going?”

“The training’s alright, but I think I drank a bit too much wine last night. I hope it doesn’t affect my race.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry if I were you. There won’t be many girls of your caliber here. I’m afraid this is a wee bit too short for me. I don’t have the speed you girls have,” Elizabeth laughed. “Have you met Paula, by the way? Solian’s the girl I told you is from New Zealand and came second in the Brinjal Bhaji 7,” she explained to the girl in the Hounslow singlet who had walked up to them.

Solian was amazed at how all the British girls seemed to have busts. She knew that mammary tissue was fatty tissue, yet all of these girls managed to maintain breasts and yet still be totally fit. It was a mystery to her.

“Hello. Are you running today?” the pretty, brown-haired girl asked Solian.

“T hope to, but I was just telling Elizabeth that I may have had a bit too much wine last night to do very well.”

“Tika Bernheinns told me you ran a very fast time at that seven-mile. If the mud doesn’t bother you too much, you should do well,” the girl smiled, ignoring Solian’s equivocation. “How do you like running here compared to New Zealand?”

“Well, in New Zealand we have our share of mud as well, but running on these heaths is beautiful. I only wish I were taking my training more seriously.”

“Oh, well, most of the girls don’t take the cross-country season too seriously, anyway. Only a few of us train hard all year round, so with your fitness you should have no trouble at all.”

Solian found the girl just a little bit condescending and that irritated her. Yet she knew it was her own fault. All that rubbish about not taking her training seriously, and using the previous night’s drinking as a hedge for a poor performance. She hated that in others, yet she had just gone and done the same thing. Still, nobody with Solian’s kind of experience liked to be talked down to, even if it was from one of the U.K.’s best 5,000-meters runners.

The Kiwi smiled. “Oh, I think I’ll be able to manage.”

“Good luck today. And you, too, Elizabeth,” Paula said before walking over to talk to another girl nearby.

“She’s quite good, you know,” Elizabeth said softly. “She hasn’t been beaten on this course over the last two years. If you fancy you can win, she’s the girl to stay with right from the start. She usually goes out quite fast.”

“TI give it a go, but I doubt if I can beat her the way I feel.”

Solian discreetly squeezed her fist. She liked the idea of the English girl being unbeaten over the Parliament Hill course. The challenge was there. If only she hadn’t had all that wine; but maybe the six-miler had burned most of it out of her, and maybe her “backpack” trick would work.

“T’m going for a warmup if you fancy coming along,” Elizabeth said.

While the two jogged the concrete perimeter outside the fence surrounding the nearby track, hundreds of girls began to bounce in place, sit along the fence to change into their spikes, or do series of striders to loosen up. The misting rain was turning into a drizzle. After a mile or so Solian still felt cold, even in her track suit. So this is what they mean by the English damp. The temperature was perhaps 10°C, but with the humidity, the dampness still penetrated one’s clothing. Then Elizabeth wished her luck and was off to change into her spikes.

By the fence Solian began to strip off her backpack. She had inadvertently learned the trick one day when she had carried two grocery bags from Hampstead across the heath, then had run her best ever six-mile training effort. The trick was to place two phone books in a backpack, and then wear it while walking around

before a race for at least half an hour. When it was removed she always felt light on her feet.

Upon doing several 200-meter stride outs she became convinced she felt better than anticipated.

“Two minutes,” a male starter in a hooded jacket yelled.

Several dozen spectators huddled under umbrellas along the rope funnel narrowing up to the crest of the first hill. Girls were stripping off their track suits to reveal the nylon vests of Highgate, London Olympiades, Barnet, and the colours of many other clubs. Solian loved the pre-race ritual, with its colours and adrenalininspired movements.

Taking several loose strides to the fence, she peeled off her tracksuit to reveal her relatively tanned legs. They created quite a contrast to the milky-white legs of most of the English girls, and she knew from the looks some of them had given her that they recognized her as “that girl” from the Brinjal Bhaji 7 and New Zealand.

A long line of competitors was beginning to form like quickly congealing ice along the start line designated by two stakes spread wide apart on a cricket field. Solian took one more stride out up the hill, then returned to the start line to sandwich herself in the front rank, two positions away from Paula Laing. Solian could feel her quads anticipating the coming rapid constrictions. She was ready.

“Thirty seconds.”

Paula danced out a few yards in front of the line, then back, a psychological display of pre-race feathers as far as Solian was concerned.

“Take your marks,” the official shouted as the runners placed one foot in front of the other and leaned forward like several hundred women peering over the railing of a ship. Solian knew every girl in the race was now at the highest possible level of tension: that point when the brain is crying out for the body to take action to relieve the stress.

It became very quiet.

Bang! And they were off with mud flying in all directions as they galloped up the first ascent. The British 5,000m specialist stormed up the hill with smooth, mechanical efficiency. Only one suicidal girl sprinted ahead of her, while Tika Bernheinns was running just off Paula’s shoulder. Solian took the hill with powerful, even strides, but could feel the congestion in her lungs from the remaining alcohol as she anaerobically maintained contact.

On the first downhill she glided to a position just behind the two English runners while the original leader slowly faded by her. Solian was reassured by the sounds of heavy breathing coming from the two ahead: they seemed to be struggling as much as she. Then scrambling up the second grassy knoll, the wind and rain picked up and the sounds of laboured breathing from behind her faded, as the three leaders gradually pulled away from the others.

Andy Yelenak

Down the backside she thought she saw Tika take a nervous look over her shoulder to see who could be hanging on. Solian wasn’t sure, but it still gave her a psychological boost. Her breathing was settling down a bit, and she convinced herself the previous evening’s toxins were now gone.

Great dark splotches of mud dotted the backs of the singlets, shorts, and the creamy, sinewy legs of the two English girls as they clattered down the muddy grass of the third hill. First came the crunching sound of Paula’s spiked shoe upon the macadam path, then an identical sound from Tika’s as the two strode over the walk into a muddy ditch separating the heath from Kenwood’s grounds. Both girls danced clear without problem.

Solian, however, was just stretching her one leg out to hit a grassy patch on the other side of the muddy pit, when her trailing shoe partially stuck. The heel of the shoe came off of her foot as she awkwardly bounded up and out of the mud. Two more strides and it became apparent she would either have to stop or lose the shoe. Why me! she thought.

Within seconds she was down on one knee frantically prying her heel into the shoe with two fingers. First one, then another runner struggled by her. “Damn!” she cursed just before the heel slipped into place.

Her adrenalin surged as she was up and off, preventing another competitor from passing. She could see the two leaders now thirty meters up on her. The shoe had probably cost her seven seconds. Use this mistake to your advantage, she told herself. You’ve had seven seconds’ rest. Sprint! Catch them!

Clambering up the muddy embankment between two of the Highgate Ponds she was forced to slow just slightly to avoid crashing into one of the two girls who had passed her. But as soon as the three of them began the climb up and across a pasture to a turn by an oak tree, she shot by them, her legs pumping. Solian turned the corner and opened her stride as much as she could on the downhill. Just one more uphill before the gate into Kenwood. She was gaining, but Tika and Paula still held a 20-meter advantage.

By the gate she had closed another five meters but her lungs were gasping. Now she faced the exact problem she had told herself not to: one-and-a-half miles of downhill without being in the lead. Solian knew Tika had speed and Paula was more than capable of blistering the second half of the race.

Then she recalled the abilities of her Maori great-grandmother. This sprinting relative made her remember two encouraging factors: Solian’s legs still felt relatively fresh and light from her backpack trick; and she was a very good downhill runner from her New Zealand hill training.

With renewed hopes and water dripping off the edges of her eyebrows, Solian further lengthened her stride in front of Kenwood House. Was Tika slipping a bit? As Solian and the milky-skinned blonde girl with the fast cadence climbed the slight incline leading to the undulating path above the gardens, she could see Tika fading ever so slightly. The English girl was coming back to her! Yet Paula still looked strong and held a four-second lead. Dig! Dig! Solian told herself, bobbing her chin as she did so. A gust of wind briefly slowed her, but she powered onward.

As the course curved up a ridge and over a log Solian closed still further on Tika. She must hear me. Solian’s spikes were making slapping noises and she saw Tika nervously glance over her shoulder. The two strode shoulder to shoulder across the leaf-strewn floor, and Solian could both see and hear the English girl doing all in her power to resist being passed. /’m going to get you!/—Solian knew her downhill training would be the difference. The English girl was primarily a track runner, and the hills and the uneven efforts they required were taking their tolls. The wind continued to how] and the drizzling rain kept coming, but Solian was unaware of both as she was propelled onward, now knowing only Paula to be ahead.

Down the muddied ridge of the East Heath the two flashed like marionettes on opposite ends of a pole, neither gaining on the other, a 15-meter gap between them. Pump those arms and lean into it! Solian mentally pleaded with herself. She began to gain, but only slightly. On they rushed, Tika’s footsteps fading out from behind her.

Suddenly Solian glanced to her left: there loomed the mounded tumulus overgrown with trees and under which Queen Boadicea was reputed to have been buried. Please, please! Let me beat the English girl! No sooner had she finished

her exhortation than she felt a galvanic shiver run through her shoulders and down her legs. Now is the time to strike!

With a renewed surge of energy she shortened her stride and simultaneously lifted her knees so much she almost felt superhuman! She was gaining! Was there still time? Her calculations told her there were only 800 meters to the finish line and it was all downhill. But the gap was closing, and if Solian were observing correctly, the English girl was almost imperceptibly slowing.

The distance narrowed to ten meters as they darted through the muddy gap in a hedge onto the first of the Parliament Hill fields. Solian had to hope the English girl was confident enough not to look around. A glance over Solian’s shoulder revealed Tika now 20 meters behind her. No problem.

Below the crest of Parliament Hill the two leaders sprinted over the final ridge. “Come on, Paula, she’s closing!” yelled one of several animated spectators.

Just five meters! Solian thought. Keep it going, keep it going! For the first time Paula could hear the unknown rival’s shoes hitting turf behind her. The Hounslow athlete glanced over her shoulder to see who was closing. Solian watched while with renewed vigour the English girl negotiated the muddy patch and macadam walk on the way to hitting the final downhill. One of Solian’s feet nearly slid out from underneath her in the mud, but her forward progress gyroscopically kept her on her feet.

Paula was really kicking on the downhill, but the taller Kiwi’s enormous strides were eating up ground. Solian leaned into it and pushed. Hang on! Hang on! Just two more meters! By the final corner she was breathing down the English girl’s neck.

“Come on, Paula!” “Just 200 meters, Paula!” shouted faceless people huddled under umbrellas. Run from the hips! Come on, come on, hurt! Solian told herself. Don’t let them make you give up!

With 180 meters to go the small crowd beginning about 75 meters out from the finishing chute began to scream and yell. “Hurry, Paula! She’s right behind you, Paula!”

Solian felt as if her lungs were going to burst! She was churning her legs as fast as she could and pumping her arms but she was still off the English girl’s shoulder. Come on, girl, lean into it! Help me, Queen Boadicea, help me!

The enthusiasm of the crowd for their heroine increased as the two slapped over the macadam path above the cricket field! The finish loomed 75 meters ahead!

With all the kick she had Solian managed to pull abreast of Paula. You’ ve got her, you’ ve got her! Just a little more … a little more! That’s it! Suddenly Solian found herself a stride up. Then she could feel the English girl let go, knowing she had been beaten.

“…16:42… 16:43…” called out an official as Solian strode on into the chute to immense applause, Paula collapsing across the finish behind her. Solian reached back a hand.

“Well done,” Paula gasped, extending one hand but doubling over and resting on her one knee with the other. Another cheer went up as Tika came across the line.

“Well done, ladies, but please keep moving in the chute,” another official said, moving them along with a prodding hand. The woman at the end of the chute wrote Solian’s number upon a clipboard as she walked slowly by, feeling a very happy, if soaked, Kiwi.

“T thought I could . . . hold you off,” Paula smiled between two breaths. Slowly she straightened up and the two stood opposite one another. “You really ran… aclever race.”

“Thanks. I almost lost my shoe at about the one-mile mark . . . but I got so mad I think it helped me. If the race had been 50 meters shorter, though . . . you would have had me.”

“Perhaps, but it looks as if I’m going to have to train a bit harder now, and so will Tika,” Paula bleakly smiled, flipping some of the water out of her hair by several snaps of her head.

Solian returned the smile. The shoe is on the other foot, mmm? she thought. The win had made her entire trip worthwhile.

“Nice race, Solian,” someone behind her said as Paula drifted away to cheer on a fellow club member. “You might not remember me, but I ran with you and Elizabeth and Sascha one day last spring. My name’s Chris. I kept thinking I’d see you on a Sunday run, but …”

“Thanks, and I do remember you,” she replied to the American. “I’ve been traveling to races for a good part of the summer, so I haven’t done the club runs much. But only last night I was wi— excuse me for a minute, Chris, but Elizabeth’s coming in, and I wanted to give her a yell.” Solian jogged up to the finish, yelling on the way, “Come on, Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth’s hair flew out behind her like a billowing flag, as she powerfully churned abreast of a much taller girl with a very long stride. Seconds later the Scottish competitor drove into the chute, barely pipping the taller girl.

“Well done, Elizabeth! You really looked strong at the finish.”

“Oh… thanks, Solian .. . I felt better . . . than I expected.” Elizabeth breathlessly replied. “How did you run?”

“Much better than / expected,” Solian beamed.

“And much better than any of us expected,” added Paula, suddenly appearing in front of the two of them with another Hounslow runner. “She won the race.”

“Oh, that’s great, Solian! Congratulations! And how did you go, then, Paula?”

“Second,” she smiled, before pursing her lips.

“Oh, well, very well done then, Solian. It looks as if the wine didn’t have too grave an effect!” Elizabeth giggled and they all laughed.

After many congratulations, the awards, and much chitchat over the course, conditions, prizes, and her training in New Zealand, Solian remembered the American. She wanted to finish telling him about Warren, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 16

“Riders on the storm…” wailed Jim Morrison from gigantic Wharfdale speakers at opposite ends of the cave. The hearth was lit, the lights in the shoe sconces cast their warm hues throughout the room, and a slide show from a Kodak Carousel beamed onto an enormous wall screen created from a king-sized bed sheet. “. . . like a dog without a bone…”

The runner had set the carousel on automatic so that every five seconds a new slide popped up. Miruts Yifter .. . Lasse Viren… Pekka Vasala . . . Harold Norpoth … Dave Wottle .. . Don Kardong . . . He had run against them all. Or was it all just a dream? He had no reason to complain about his life. He had tasted greatness even if his competitive days were over. With his legs up upon his makeshift ottoman he rested in the great chair next to the fire.

“Filbert Bayi. I remember that one,” he said aloud, his hands abruptly gripping the arms of the chair. “I finished eleventh in that one.” But then he wondered to himself if he really had indeed run or if he had read about it and was just dreaming. On and on the slides and the music continued while he occasionally glanced down at Brian Glanville’s The Olympian, lying open on his lap.

Suddenly the runner was up out of his chair and bouncing over to the turntable to take off the record. He had spontaneously decided to go over to Prompt Corner no matter what the weather was like. With a hard 15-mile interval session under his belt—during which he had run 6 X 1-mile in 4:10, 4:11, 4:11, 4:10, 4:09, and 4:07, with a two-minute rest between—completed in the morning rain, he could afford to do whatever he wanted for the rest of the day. And he liked walking across the heath to South End Green. On the way he could check out the fishermen, enjoy the view of the City of London to the south, and get the circulation going to remove from his legs some of the lactic acid accumulated during the morning workout.

Briskly walking near the Highgate fishing pond, reminiscences of the final lap of a past European race wistfully drifted through the runner’s mind. But these thoughts were interrupted when he suddenly recognized the lanky fellow bounding toward him. It was Watson Doyle.

“Hi, Watson,” he said as the Scotsman slowed to a halt.

“Hello, laddie. How’s the roonin’, then?”

“Very good, thanks. How’s about yourself?”

“Goin’ well, m’lad. 146 last week.”

“Great. I’m just heading over to Prompt Corner to watch a little chess.”

“Aye, a fine game, that, but it can be vera dangerous.”

“Don’t worry: I haven’t played in a long time,” the runner grinned. “TI like it there because no one knows I’m a runner and nobody asks any questions.”

“Aye, I’ve seen that game destroy the best of them,” laughed Doyle. “And speakin’ of questions, that oother American laddie, Carlson, is vera curious t’ know who you aire.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“No, and I willna be a tellin’ him, you can rest assured. As far as I’m concairned, myself and old man Armathwaite are the only two that know. But the lad could figure it out by accident like I did.”

“He won’t, though, because you’re the only one who I ever allow to spend time with me.” And you don’t really know.

“Aye. Well, I’d better be off. I’ve got to be ready fair the Masters and Maidens,” he winked, referring to an upcoming English veterans’ race. “I’ll be doin’ a 20 tomorrow if you fancy a long roon. I’ll be by the Kenwood Field at aboot seven 0’clock.”

“Tl probably be up for that one. I’ll be at the crossbar in the alley if I am.”

“O.K., laddie. See you then,” the Scotsman said before tearing off.

The light was starting to lessen and the air was beginning to get chilly as the runner climbed the path up through the small forest near the top of Parliament Hill. He could feel the beginnings of an East Wind, one sometimes known as a “Russian” wind. Such winds were colder and dryer than the normal prevailing westerlies, and just as they portended evil to Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, they also seemed forbidding to the runner. Above him, on top of the windswept mound overlooking the city, stood one lone figure, dressed in shaggy woolens, gazing up at a box kite several hundred yards above, against grey clouds.

Just down from the crest, huge, jagged, hardened mud ruts had been worn into the turf where hundreds of runners had streamed through on their final descent to finishes of various cross-country races below. He loved those markings because they reminded him of the kindred spirits of so many individuals of different ethnic groups, nationalities, or economic backgrounds, who became united in the conflict of a foot race over natural terrain. Also, after his last six years of hard work, it gave him satisfaction to know that he was probably the world’s best at such foot races. He only regretted they would never know his hard-fought-for ability.

Inside the window of Prompt Corner a group clustered around Yuri Popzayev’s table. It wasn’t really Yuri’s table: it was just that the table was known as his because it was considered the winner’s table, and Yuri usually played there all afternoon, and sometimes into the evening because he just kept winning. He

didn’t look at all like an intellectual, with his large hairy forearms, massive chest, and tattooed hands, but as he sat there each afternoon in his short-sleeved, white polyester shirt, puffing on his pipe and warding off all opponents, it quickly became apparent to any new observer that he was the man to beat. He was a grand master; but so were several others who regularly played at Prompt Corner. His chess was not particularly imaginative; it was rather that he was quite good at playing mistake free. Get a piece down to Yuri, and a player was usually forced to resign.

The runner stood and watched amidst a pack of mostly 55-year-old kibitzers, as a dark-haired American with a mustache—his nationality discerned from observing his Levi shirt and running shoes—bravely continued his game, having already made what appeared to be the fatal error of trading a rook and two pawns for a knight and a bishop. His positions were not too bad for mid-game, but he was one point down, and although Yuri had not developed quite as well as the American had, the older opponent’s tight defense with weak-side castle looked as if it would be enough to wear down the American to a late attacking end-game.

The younger man fiddled with his mustache and shifted his shoulders in a tick-like fashion while contemplating his response to Yuri’s latest surprise move, one which jeopardized the American’s queen and bishop with a knight fork. A predicament the onlookers smugly felt an experienced player would never have allowed to occur. Glances and smiles were exchanged between several of them indicating the tacit opinion that the end was near, just what they had expected of such a brash, virtually unknown challenger.

The American deliberated for quite some time, Yuri sitting there with arms crossed, all the while calmly puffing on his pipe. Finally, as perhaps ten pairs of eyes apprehensively awaited his move, his hand slowly reached out. The bishop was moved over and back as if the American had not noticed the danger to his queen—unless he was daringly sacrificing her—something few, with the exception of Bobby Fischer, had ever attempted successfully. Several onlookers shook their heads in anticipation of the death of the queen.

With only a short hesitation, Yuri removed the black queen with his right hand—providing more shock value than had he moved the white knight first— then filled the vacant space with the knight. For the first time mumbling could be heard amongst the cluster around the two players; but the runner, whose scarred face had barely been given any notice amidst the concentration, changed neither his expression nor his keen observation of the board.

Swiftly the American moved his black knight into a position in the rook file, checking the Russian’s king, leaving the latter the alternative of moving his king into the corner or taking the black knight with his pawn. But it wasn’t as easy as that. Yuri began to shift in his chair and perspire, while observers now craned

Andy Yelenak

their necks to get better views of the board, the oncoming upset quickly becoming evident.

For no matter which of the two choices Yuri chose, he was to be mated in two moves by the American’s two bishops, knight, or rook whose file was to become open should the bishop need to be sacrificed. The American had made a brilliant queen sacrifice.

The Russian quickly tipped over his king, for to deliberate any longer was only to lose more face: he had lost. Yuri congratulated his conqueror, but amidst the stupified faces and mumblings it could easily be discerned that the master was gravely upset.

“Who’s next?” the American smiled up at the leering faces as Yuri quickly removed himself from his chair.

While heads turned left and right upon men who slowly stood upright, it rapidly became apparent that as good as most of them were, no one was willing to take on this new challenger who had devastated their champion.

“What about you?” the American asked the sole remaining individual who hadn’t flinched. “You’re a good runner—I’ve seen you out on the heath. If you can play chess half as well as you can run, you should whip me with ease.”

Normally the surrounding players would have egged on another newcomer, but when they turned to look at the runner’s face, they thought better of it and ended up averting their eyes before glancing back to see what his reply would be.

“Oh, I haven’t played in quite a while,” the runner diffidently replied, noticing the others’ eyes upon him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy on you.”

The smiling confidence of his fellow American was aggravating, but the runner was afraid his temper would get the better of him if he were to sit down and play. To win he knew he would have to remain calm.

“No, that’s O.K. I’m sure that many of these other players could give you a better game than I could.”

“Doubtless, doubtless, but I’ve already offered to play them and no one seems to be willing to pick up the gauntlet. You, on the other hand, strike me as the kind of person who is quite competitive. I tell you what. We’ll make it a two-part competition: running and chess. I’ll say that I can beat you before you’ve taken thirty moves, and then you get to bet how many minutes you think you can beat me by in a race of your choice.”

What cheek! the runner thought to himself. Not only did the wise-ass think he could beat him at chess, but that he could do it in under thirty moves! The gauntlet was now down. All eyes remained upon the standing runner.

“You’re making an offer difficult to refuse,” the runner answered amidst new mumblings. “How many miles a week have you averaged for the past year?”

“Oh,” the new champion shrugged with pursed lips, “I should say about 15-20.”

“And your best time for a 10-kilometer race or some equivalent?”

“Tran a seven-mile race recently in 38 and change.”

“Have you ever run a marathon?”

“T’ve never run further than 15 miles,” Warren laughed.

The runner continued to mull the matter over in his mind, but he had already made his decision. Not fast enough to give me any competition, he thought about the wise-ass, and I can’t stand all these people staring at me.

“Mmm —no, no, I can’t do it,” the runner shook his head.

“Can’t do what?”

“Any racing. My competitive days are over. I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass up your modest invitation.”

The champion looked into the eyes of several of the group still quietly entranced at having heard the man with the badly scarred face speak.

“Oh, come on. It’s obvious you’re a better runner than I am: everybody’s seen you out on the heaths; the great mystery runner.”

“There’s no mystery. It just happens to be something I enjoy.”

“Most people would enjoy running four-and-a-half minute miles,” Warren smiled, looking around for approval. “The question is, however, whether you’re a better chess player than I am.”

The runner intently stared into the eyes of his arrogant challenger with one deep brown eye, the other damaged eye’s lid sagging.

“T used to be quite a talker and a doer. But now I’m just a doer. With a face looking like mine, I find it more difficult now to talk when I catch people quickly looking away after having glimpsed my face.”

The elderly men stood mesmerized.

“Your face doesn’t bother me,” Warren Fowles said as he began to set up the chess pieces. “I think you’re leaning a bit too heavily on a physical disfigurement which has nothing at all to do with chess or running. My bet still stands.”

All eyes moved to the runner. He battered some smoke away from his face. “The running is out. But,” he said, pausing for effect, “a game of chess: I just might play.”

Slowly he slipped out of his jacket to reveal a Washington State hooded sweatshirt underneath. “But I’ll tell you what. You beat me in less than thirty moves, and I’ll run any race you name.”

Baggy woolen sleeves were pushed up on arms and the murmurs amongst the men began again. The runner slipped into the chair facing the window, the kibitzers immediately pressing in upon the table like a large duvet. After the pieces were in place the runner looked up.

“Excuse me, but I can’t play chess with you blowing smoke in my face,” he addressed an onlooker.

The man rapidly stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on a nearby empty table. He was affronted, but preferred to watch the impending contest.

During the next hour the game evolved into a very complex mid-game. The runner had conservatively developed his knights and bishops first, while the other, more flamboyant American, daringly had moved his queen out into the field at an early opportunity, a dangerous tactic against anyone of ability.

“So where are you from?” the champion suddenly asked.

The runner slowly broke his concentration and looked up.

“Like I said earlier: I used to be more of a talker, but now I’m just a doer.” His eyes moved back to the board, his hands gripping iron quadriceps under the table.

To the spectators it seemed obvious Warren Fowles had made his remark because he had just moved his white queen into a very strong position, one threatening two of the black pieces and a mate in two moves as well. Each knew the runner’s next move would tell whether he was skilled or amateur. They shifted from foot to foot as first five, then ten minutes passed in silence, the smooth-looking American sitting opposite with arms folded across his shirt and eyes impatiently staring about the room as if to indicate the predictability of the next several moves.

For the first time the runner’s right hand came out from underneath the table to rub the spot on his head where he had been hit with the bottle; then quickly retreated back to its original position. Warren let out a sigh.