special book bonus

Doyle takes Chris under his wing and trains him for a sub: 3:00. Part 8.

Chapter 20

Ne Zealander Wins Charbonnet Cross-Country Meeting, was the headline across the top of the page of British Athletics held in Watson Doyle’s veined hands. That young lass has really come along, he thought, having already read the results of several other British and continental cross-country races in which Solian Lede placed in the top three. Still perusing the statistics he reached for his cup of tea, spilling it slightly upon the top magazine in a tall stack of perhaps 150 assorted running periodicals, including: New Zealand Runner, Australian Runner, On The Run (now defunct), and Spiridon.

The entire room reeked of Dr. Weasel’s liniment, a substance earlier applied to his sore calf muscles. The same plethora of wet T-shirts, mud-spattered shoes, newspapers, certificates, entry forms, vests, dirty plates and cups, half-open books, photo albums, and marathon hats with logos was scattered about.

Elizabeth MacGregor has sooch a short, choppy stride, yet she is faster than I ovair 50 miles, he thought, noticing her name amongst the top 30 girls. Time marches relentlessly on. But then he thought of how Dr. Alex Ratelle was running low 2:30s for marathons, and another over-50, Piet van Alphen, was running in the 2:20s. Then there’s Jack Foster, but he’s in a class by himself. Doyle convinced himself to take heart, even with sore calf muscles.

Today I have to talk to the American, Christopher. Doyle felt the lad had been making excellent progress with the fartlek, hill, and interval program he had devised, but the young runner hadn’t seemed to be able to come to grips with his diet. Those Americans just always had the same bad habit of wanting bonnie princely portions or seconds, as if their stomachs were permanently distended. And they tended to be so huge from a childhood during which they downed bloody

great steaming quantities of dairy products and meats three times a day. The poor fools were always on some Prettychin, Scaredell, or some such diet, when they just bloody well needed to eat smaller quantities. But then Doyle did know habits were difficult to break. He felt the British chill was worth about 1,000 calories a day, anyway. Another sip of hot tea slid down his gullet, and he contemplated how tea had to be one of the finest acquisitions of the British Empire.

With one continuous motion he pitched the magazine onto a nearby couch— or at least partially so, since a good section of the periodical landed on top of the remains of a partially buttered scone he had absentmindedly forgotten while reading—and headed to the large kauri wood chest of drawers (half of which were ajar), and diligently began to root around amidst its contents to locate his London-Brighton T-shirt. Then he remembered he had worn it on one of the previous day’s three training runs, and ferreted it out from one of the cross slats underneath a table. His eyes then spied the ten and one pound notes and the 50p piece lying atop the table. Doyle made a mental note that he was going to have to make that money last until the next dole check.

Soon he was loping down Constantine Road to the walkway leading over the railway bridge to Parliament Hill. Ah, it’s gude to be alive, he thought while stretching his spindly legs out along the pavement. Within several minutes he had made the initial climb up the macadam walk beside the brick garden walls, upon which someone had less than artfully spray painted THATCHERISM IS WANKERISM, and was pumping his knees into the wind to the top of the hill. The breeze was quite cold, but for someone who had spent most of his lifetime in the Scottish air, it was invigorating.

Freewheeling down to the Highgate Lakes he could see the American doing the same down from the Highgate side. Those bright bluddy track suits, Doyle shook his head as he surveyed the red rain suit with the sky-blue stripe down the side that Chris was wearing like a Scilly Isles beacon. Well, no bluddy chance of him gettin’ hit by a car. “Quack-quack-quack,” went a duck out upon the lake as the two converged nearby.

“Hello, laddie.”

“Hi, Watson.”

“So how’s the trainin’ goin’, then?”

“Well, pretty good, pretty good. I think the old ankle’s finally strengthened up after the dog accident when I resprained it, and the 12 X 440s went well on Tuesday.”

“Aye, and yai’re continuin’ to roon up the Highgate West Hill, are you?”

“Yep. I’m still holding at 75 miles, though.”

“That’s alright. I think yai’re goin’ to have trouble takin’ the mileage any higher without losin’ the weeght. You might have to cut back on the pints a wee bit.” Doyle grinned, displaying a row of irregular, discoloured teeth. “Next week

I reckon we’ll try to have you roon aboot 80-85 miles without the intervals to give the laigs a chance to rest. All slow miles, mind you, with just a few wee hills. And what aboot the Kiwi gairl, lad? Have y’ not rung her yet? I see in British Athletics where she’s a bairnin’ up the turf.”

“I know, I saw that. I’ve called her many times, but she’s never at home. I guess she’s over on the continent again.”

“Aye, I usually reckon women are a waste of time fair rooners, but that lassie’s got a head on hair shoulders, and she might just be the pairson you need to help you with losin’ the weeght. I dinna like sayin’ it, but reckon you could use a gude woman, lad. She’d be a gude influence on you. But I’m not hair t’ give lectures on women, so let’s see aboot stretchin’ our laigs a wee bit, shall we?”

The unlikely pair set off at a seven-minute pace, a speed Chris was now able to handle without great difficulty. The old Scotsman weaved and darted through forested paths, along muddy trails, and over and down ridges, hills, and grassy knolls, selecting various points in the distance to which the two would run at speed. Ten miles and 68 minutes later, Chris was at the end of his tether.

“Yai’re doin’ well, laddie. I reckon we can get you down below 2:50 in that marathon,” Watson said as they began the long descent from the Kenwood Gate back down to the track one mile below. Doyle could see the American was a mass of sweat and knew the run had been quite a testing one. “Now doana go out and eat a pizza or some sooch roobish tonight, laddie. Concentrate on gettin’ the weeght

Andy Yelenak

doon. You canna carry four sacks of potatoes in yair arms and expect t’ be roonin’ well. Drop those potatoes, lad, and you’ll drop those times. Like yair countryman, Frank Shorter, says, ‘there are no accidents in runnin’ a 2:10 marathon.’ Well, the same applies to roonin’ in the 2:40s fair the likes of us, laddie. You’ll see verra few thairteen-stune rooners get into the 2:40s. It’s verra easy to reckon why. Don’t wairy so mooch aboot what you eat, but rather how mooch you eat. If you must eat a pizza, eat half and walk away from it. ‘Stay hungry,’ like yair mighty oak, Arnold Schwarzenegger, says. I used to be two stune heavier myself, mind you, and I couldna’ caught a milk wagon. But once you get the weeght doon you can get the mileage up high enough to eat what you will.”

Chris was shaking his head. “Bad American habits,” he smiled. “But I will make a more determined effort. And I do agree that if I start seeing Solian, I think it will help my discipline.”

“Be pairsistent, laddie. Pursuing a woman is like pairsuing fitness: you have to keep at it. If I wair you I’d be a callin’ that lassie until I got hold of her. The

way to that gairl’s heart is steady fast roonin’.

Chapter 21

“Unh-unh-unh-unh-unhhhh!” erupted from the mouth of the wiry but muscled sprinter, as she reached the climax of another of her 200-meter intervals. The girl was known as “the screamer.” On every other lap she could be heard approaching from behind as Solian simultaneously was finishing her 68-second 400-meter intervals. She wished the vocalist would eliminate those last-50-meter utterances from her workouts or else attempt to switch to the weight throws.

Solian had just been back from the continent since the previous Sunday evening and was in quite good spirits over her performances abroad. She had run four races there and had placed in the top five in three of them. In the fourth, the Rimou Invitational, an 8-kilometer race run in a tiny village, she had finished 20th overall and second amongst women. Once again, however, of the three foreign runners she had romantically fancied, none was even as tall as she was. Fortunately for once she had ignored this facet of her life, and instead concentrated on her racing.

To be running even 6 X 400 meters so soon after a hard, hilly 8-kilometers race was probably foolish, but her legs felt very relaxed for the second morning after a race, and on Monday she had taken only a four-mile jog round the heath to loosen up a bit.

She pressed the stop button on her Seiko chronograph as she finished the fifth 400: 68 seconds. Spot on. Good on you, she thought to herself, considering how easy the laps seemed to be going. She sagged into a loping jog around the curve of the Parliament Hill track. One more. Take it easy—you’ ve just raced.

Andy Yelenak

She hit the 200-meter start where she was commencing all her 400s and began to pump her arms and use them round the curve. At the beginning of the straight she felt a slight twinge in her right calf muscle, intensifying just as the screamer could be heard moaning up behind her. Solian was tempted to push it harder to avoid allowing the girl to pass her, but instead decided upon the more prudent approach of slowing before possibly seriously damaging her calf muscle. She moved into lane two to let the girl and her steam engine-like noises pass.

Jogging to cool down she could still feel the twinge. See, that’s what you get for overdoing it after a race. She eased up even more and continued to jog for another seven laps. The twinge finally began to disappear, but she knew it to be an indicator of an impending pull if she didn’t take it easy for a few days. Her feet plopped into a walk as she crossed over the pink tartan lanes to leave the track.

“Hello there.”

It was the American guy with the red hair. He was sitting on a wall, swinging a leg.

“Hi, Chris. You should be out here running,” she smiled.

“Oh, I will be. I’m just waiting for my fellow ‘B’ team members to do some intervals. You were looking quite smooth out there.”

“T felt O.K. until the last interval, and then I began to get a twinge in my calf muscle,” she said, rolling her eyes, “so I’ve got to take it easy for a few days. How’s your training going, then?”

“Not bad, not bad. I got in 73 last week. The Scotsman, Watson Doyle, is helping me with a program that he insists will get me to a sub-three for the Greater London Marathon.” When Chris laughed following his remark, Solian noticed he had a warm smile. “He sure is a nice guy.”

“Yeah, and he’s a pretty good runner for his age. Hasn’t he run a 2:30 marathon, or something?”

“Mmm-huh. He told me something about you winning your latest race on the continent—was it in Charbonnet?”

“Oh, yeah, I was quite lucky, I guess. I just went out hard and then held on. I have to admit I was pretty pleased. How about you, then? Done any racing?”

“T did the Midland 10 near Stoke-on-Trent in 63:30. That was my best, but I expected to be about a minute faster. It was just hillier than I expected. I might do that North London Road Runner’s 10K Battersea Park. Are you going to do it?”

“Maybe, but I’Il have to see what sort of cross-country obligations I have for the remaining season.”

She watched Chris get to his feet when he saw several of their fellow club members entering the track area. He turned to look back at her.

“I’ve wanted to phone you several times to see if you could go on a run or come for a drink at The Spaniards, but I didn’t know your telephone number.”

Solian smiled. She was flattered that the tall American had wanted to contact her.

“Going for a run would be fun.” She doubted whether he would call. He was too shy, but she gave him her number anyway. “Good luck with your intervals tonight.”

When she arrived home Solian immediately went to the fridge and pulled out a wedge of frozen paw-paw, or papaya, as the rest of the world called it. It was her favorite way of getting her blood sugar up again after any kind of depleting session or race. After making a pot of mint tea she plopped down in a chair in her parlour opposite the painting of Hampstead Heath she had acquired at an outdoor art show.

Gazing up at the portrait illustrating partially sunlit meadows and forests, she suddenly felt homesick for New Zealand’s cabbage trees, fern trees, and temperate climate. Surviving the winter with a handsome 1,000-watt heater in bed with you was one thing, but going it alone with nothing to take your mind off the cold was already becoming trying, and November weather was only the beginning. Even sitting there in her flannel-lined track suit and gloves she felt cold, though the temperature outside was probably eleven or twelve degrees Centigrade. She couldn’t see the point of a great heating expense when she was there so little. Reading would be nice, but concentration was impossible at that

temperature, and the small gas heater she did use would take quite a while to heat up the parlour.

When she slowly got up out of her chair to walk over to turn on the telly, blood pooled in Solian’s legs, making her feel lightheaded and stiff. Thames had on a banal American comedy and BBC-1 was broadcasting a World War II documentary, so she tried BBC-2, which had on the news. Lord St. John (pronounced sinjun) Hogg-Fewde was extolling the virtues of his department’s latest economic cutbacks, and Solian allowed his resonant voice to soothe her while she began to do some stretching exercises.

As she loosened her calf muscles her mind drifted to just how lonely she really was. Solian simply did not like living alone. It wasn’t the Kiwi way. Nor could she decide just why she was staying through England’s tough winter when she had accomplished what she had set out to do both in Britain and on the continent. She could be back running round the bays in the sun, or doing Waiatarua runs with the large pack of Lynndale club runners.

Oh well, it’s experience! she told herself as she placed her chilled palms flat on the floor. Another couple of slugs of hot tea and thoughts about the possibility of the American calling her and she started to feel better. But then again, she thought, he just might have been making conversation and might never call. Not to bother, not to bother, she calmed herself. You’ ve got a long life ahead of you and plenty of time to find a man. And the harder you seek, the less you will find.

“., . Grete Waitz didn’t break the world record in the 5,000 meters in Christchurch, New Zealand, but she did give it a good effort. According to Mrs. Waitz, cramps in her legs during the last several laps prevented her from accomplishing this goal. The world hang gliding championships . . .” the voice droned on as Solian’s attention span again waned following some consideration over why they had brought up an old record attempt of Grete Waitz. She lay down on the couch and ran a hand through her curly blonde hair. Just a brief nap before showering.

The jangling double ring of the telephone abruptly awoke her. She reached it, then in anticipation hesitated before lifting the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Solian?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Chris, the runner from the track today.”

“Oh yes, hi, Chris. How did the intervals go then?” Solian could feel her pulse rising.

“Well. It got quite cold and windy out there, but we got in our twelve quarters. Right now a bunch of us are at The Freemason Arms, but I was thinking that if you might like to have a glass of wine, I could meet you at The Spaniards later.”

“That would be lovely. But I have to have a quick shower and wash my hair first. How about three quarters of an hour?”

“That’ll be fine. By the time I finish my beer and walk there, it’ll probably take me that long, anyway. Shall we meet in the pub or in the wine bar?”

“T don’t mind. Whatever you prefer.”

“Well, the pub is much smokier, and all the tables are usually taken by nine o’clock, so why don’t we meet in the wine bar?”

“O.K. See you then.”

As she hung up the phone Solian’s spirits soared. She liked the way the American had wasted no time once he had learned her number. Her upbringing had been totally opposed to such eagerness. Kiwis generally lived in groups until they found partners, but she had been living alone in England. She was glad Chris had called so soon: had he been a Kiwi or a Pom, it might have been weeks or not at all.

Within 20 minutes she had showered and dressed in a light-blue blouse, tan wool pullover, dark-blue velvet jeans, and her navy-blue canvas shoes with the straw heels. Shopping for clothes was one of her favorite pastimes. Then knowing it was bad for her hair, Solian used a hair dryer only for about two minutes. Although it wasn’t a good idea to go out in the chill with her hair wet, at least it was curly enough that it looked almost the same damp. She looked in the mirror. God, not bad, she thought. In fact, “crushing,” as Dick Quax would say.

From the lines of cars parked along Hampstead Lane, and those in the parking lot, she could tell that The Spaniards not only was going to be crowded, but also as Chris had mentioned, was going to be filled with smoke. Still, she would be glad to get inside, for the cold was cutting right through the Nike nylon jacket she had recently been given. She had it zipped up to her chin. Some sort of wool jacket and scarf would have been more appropriate for the cold in England, particularly as her jacket’s colours were royal blue on dark metallic blue, colours contrasting those of more conservative British fashions, but she was meeting an American runner.

The wine bar on the first floor was dimly lit by candles on the tables. She could barely make out couples quietly leaning forward over bottles of wine at various points throughout the oaken room, and Solian felt a pang of disappointment when she didn’t see Chris anywhere, but then convinced herself to relax. He might still be on the way.

“Solian?”

She turned around quickly. He had been there all along reading a Running magazine with his head down. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you with your hair wet and your head down.”

Chris grinned. “A man of many disguises. Sit down.”

The two ordered glasses of a German white wine before Chris spoke again.

“That’s a great jacket. They gave those same jackets—or very similar ones—to the competitors at the 1980 U.S. Olympic Trials. But you had better take it off in here or you’re going to freeze when you go outside.”

“You’re right, but I think I’ll keep it on for a few minutes until I warm up a bit,” she smiled, the candlelight causing the curls of her hair to sparkle. Then Solian noticed an almost imperceptible grimace quickly evaporate from Chris’ face. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh … nothing. Just a stomach cramp. I’ll be O.K. I think maybe I’m just a bit dehydrated,” he said, giving his stomach several rotational rubs. “It’s certainly nothing several glasses of wine and some good company can’t cure.”

During the next hour while chatting about their backgrounds and mutual interests, it became apparent to Solian the American had a lot more depth than she originally had thought, and he appeared quite handsome when he smiled. At times his enthusiasm could be quite unbridled, while at others could evaporate almost entirely as he drifted off into contemplation. And the more his hair dried the better it looked, gradually giving his face a more full appearance from its earlier drawn look. Thoughts of what it would be like to go with Chris to California drifted through her head.

“So at the end of the year do you think you will try to work here in video tape, or will you go back?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I’m going to work in video tape again. The nature of the beast has changed. It’s become too much like a group grope, and I think I enjoy working alone better. That’s not to mention the possibility of longterm low-grade radiation causing damage. There’s been very little research done on the subject, but one fellow who worked under the high-power transmitters of a building in New York got cataracts, mental disorders, and all kinds of problems. So who knows,” he said, draining his glass. “I’ll probably go back to California and try to start some kind of business, but I don’t know what that might be.” He laughed. “I just have to make sure it doesn’t interfere with my running.”

Solian laughed. “I know what you mean. You have to get your priorities in order.”

Chris nodded with a smile and a furled brow.

“So you won’t be staying here?” she asked.

“T seriously doubt it. My visa’s up at the end of one year. I’ll probably run the Greater London and then go back to California. What about you? Are you staying here indefinitely?”

“T don’t think so. I’ve been told that most members of the Commonwealth who are not permanent residents are now being asked to leave because of high unemployment. Maybe I could obtain permanent resident status because of my running. But I do miss New Zealand, and I just don’t know if I could put up with this weather year after year.”

“I know what you mean. It’s difficult ever to get warm enough, except when you’re out on a run or soaking in the bathtub.”

They both laughed, and Solian was very pleased to find herself reacting to the American with such a lack of inhibition.

“So, do you think you’ll go back to New Zealand?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think there’s always the challenge of trying to gain acceptance in the mother country. Deep down I know it’s very difficult to be accepted by the English, and very difficult to endure the climate, but I think these are two reasons people keep on coming. The challenge of surviving. And I also owe it to myself to experience as much of Europe as I can. I thought about selling the house, but I think my father intended for it to be kept in the family; and I think with a few changes it will make a nice home.” Solian paused to consider if it would be wise to reveal her true feelings. “It’s a very large house to live alone in. I could take on a flatmate, but somehow I seem to be getting beyond that.” Having said that, she wondered if her remark might have been too suggestive, something she honestly didn’t want, not because Chris wasn’t a possibility, but rather more because they had only known each other for a short time.

Chris seemed to lapse into contemplation, but then leaned back in his chair with his glass of wine in hand.

“England is a very perplexing place. I think what you said is true. It seems as if most people from outside her fall into a love-hate relationship with her. She has bright, dry-witted, reserved, conservative folk who often remain insular and condescending to foreigners. She has for the most part a brutal, dark, unrelenting climate suitable for the life of a prisoner, yet people beg to be let in. Job possibilities are almost non-existent and wage rates pathetic, yet still the hordes flock here seeking asylum from the whirlwind pursuits of mass, shallow materialism found elsewhere, even with the realization that prices here often border upon absurdity. And why? Because London is still the center of the earth, where you still can meet someone from almost any country. Because the countryside and its vegetation are lush and green and rolling. Because the buildings are old and steeped in tradition, and the people moderately intransigent in their habits. The reading and writing in England are still the best the language has to offer, and the ascerbic condescension of her inhabitants derives from their quicker, more literate, more articulate abilities—skillfully and cunningly utilized to avenge the bastardization of their language in their pubs, restaurants, and thousand other haunts by millions of loudly drawling, mindless tourists. I’m sorry—I could go on and on,” Chris smiled.

“Please do. I think your insights are spot on. It’s so very difficult to leave England, yet sometimes it’s torture to stay. They just don’t easily accept people from other countries. They’re very polite to you in their condescending manners,

but you sense that deep down they still consider you a rough-hewn, uneducated foreigner suitable for entertainment.”

“Mmm-huh. Like you said, it’s the challenge, though. It’s an education of itself. Most people who visit here are either repulsed by their reception, or else challenged to seek acceptance, even at the same time knowing such acceptance in reality to be an impossibility. And truthfully it’s just simply difficult for anyone to transpose twenty to thirty-odd years of cultural upbringing. Too many behavioral and idiomatic nuances exist to be assimilated in a short period of time. Patterns of thinking are different, humors are different, values are different, not to mention terminology, spelling, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Mmm,” she nodded in agreement.

Asmile crept across Chris’ face. “See, that’s an example of assimilation. Now that you’ve been here for a while, you just acknowledged a point I had made with ‘mmm,’ whereas in New Zealand—correct me if I’m wrong—you might have said ‘oh yah,’ and in California I would have said: ‘mmm-huh.’”

“Tt’s true, but in New Zealand, we say ‘mmm?’ also.”

“Hummmumh, is that so?”

“Mmm.”

By eleven o’clock closing it was apparent to Solian she had made the right decision in deciding to meet Christopher for a drink. He had a good sense of humour and very good insight and intuition. With his laughter and his smiling, she barely noticed the scar above his lip. She cautioned herself against getting her expectations up, however, because of having heard how fickle and womanizing American men were reputed to be.

She told Chris he needn’t bother walking her home, but he insisted it would only be a short deviation. So the two, tired from the day’s runs, slowly ambled the half mile down to her house in Ingram Avenue. She felt very relaxed now with Chris, especially since he had made no effort at holding her hand or any other physical contact for that matter, a lack of aggressiveness she found reassuring. Yet Solian found it vaguely perplexing that she wanted him to do something which would at the same time probably disappoint her. A good thing is worth waiting for, though, she nodded to herself.

“Would you like to come in for a cup of herb tea?”

“That would be nice. I would like to see the inside of one of London’s more fashionable houses.”

Upon returning with a tray of cups and a pot of Sleepy Time tea, she noticed Chris had taken a chair rather than sitting upon the couch. Either he was shy or else doing his utmost to counteract the forward approach attributed to the typical American male.

“T like your painting of the heath.”

“It’s good, isn’t it? I know very little about painting, but I liked it because it seems to have captured one of the almost infinite moods and variations of the heaths you notice when running over them.”

“Mmm. The heaths do have an amazingly diverse array of appearances and climatic changes throughout the seasons. One time it’s brilliantly lush with sunlight filtering through in various spots, while another the grass is completely frosted over against barren branches and bushes. That morning last week when there was snow on the ground, I actually fell down in it twice while out on my run.”

“Yes, I remember that day. I ran round the heath on the footpaths then.”

As Chris nodded and took a sip of tea, Solian thought how nice it would be for him to spend the night. Torn between propriety and loneliness, she didn’t know how she’d respond if it came to that. Yet Solian did feel good about the red-headed runner sitting opposite her still observing the painting. Even though he lacked the physiological talents necessary to be a good club runner, he seemed quite dedicated to his training, and it occurred to her that should she start seeing him on a regular basis, Chris would be the first such disciplined male in a long line of dissolute partners.

“Well, I’d better be getting home,” Chris said, setting his cup down on the tray. “Thanks very much for the tea.”

“You’re very welcome—can I give you a lift home?”

“Oh, no thanks. The walk will get rid of some of the lactic acid and stiffness from the intervals. I find that whenever I sit down after hard running, the legs tighten up.”

Solian laughed. “I know what you mean.”

Chris stood there as if thinking what to say. “So I think the old walk will do me good.”

“Right-ee-oh,” she smiled sympathetically. “I enjoyed this evening very much.”

“Good. I did too. Perhaps we can do it again another evening or go for a run.”

“That would be nice. Just give me a shout—sorry, ring—if you want to go for a run,” she laughed.

There was an awkward pause as if Chris wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t. She swung open the front door with a smile displaying a set of teeth with only one upper incisor just slightly out of alignment, lending itself to her more natural look.

“Sleep well.”

“You, too. And [ll try to give you a call about a run when I think I could keep up with you.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that. I run a lot of miles slower than you run. See you soon.”

After a little wave he began to walk away. Solian wondered if she would hear from him again: but then maybe that was another American habit she had heard about which would prove to be untrue. Then suddenly Chris was holding his stomach with one hand upon the gate.

“What’s wrong?” she hesitatingly asked, walking several steps toward him. “Are you alright?”

“Oh… nothing…” he grimaced. “Just my stomach acting up. I’m not supposed to be drinking.”

Solian walked up to him. “Would you like me to call a doctor?”

“No-no .. . that’s O.K. I already know what it is. I’ll be O.K.,” he answered, slowly straightening up.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, a smile slipping across his face. “Yah, really, I’ll be O.K.”

“Well, at least let me give you a lift home.”

He shook his head emphatically and started to walk out the gate.

“No, really, Pll be all right. Don’t worry, not to worry,” he smiled. “See you soon.”

And before Solian could protest any further he was walking off down the footpath.

Chapter 22

Warren scratched his head, took a sip of Remy Martin cognac—something he was trying to drink only on that given day to see how much he could loosen his inhibitions—and then glanced down at the lines he had written:

The purple vest, the purple shoes Running madly under dismal hues Dashing and dancing, feet in the air Flying o’er turf with his vacant stare .. .

He couldn’t decide if o’er was perhaps a bit much and whether he should change it to over; nor could he decide what the next stanza was to be about. The cognac was relaxing him, but it didn’t seem to be making him any more prolific.

“Oh, sod it!” he muttered, throwing his quill pen onto the blotter. All morning long his concentration had been impeded by thoughts of Solian. He knew she was really a good woman, and he had taken her for granted, a pattern to which he was not unaccustomed. There were plenty of women in London, but he had been spending far too much time drinking and carousing. His body was beginning to tell him it couldn’t take the levels of abuse it had been able to cope with in his twenties.

Warren shook his head from side to side in vacillation over whether he should phone her or not. Bugger it, I’m going to call her, he thought to himself, pushing off from the desk he had placed in the bowed window.

“So how’s the Kiwi flash?”

“Oh… hello, Warren. How are you?”

Her tone of voice and singsong perfunctory question told him she wasn’t exactly exhilarated to hear from him.

“Oh, you know: the odd poem, the occasional drink, a stroll into the village from time to time, then perhaps a run round the heaths. What have you been up to?—racing, I suppose.”

“Mmm.” She paused. “I’m surprised to hear from you.”

“Pleasantly, I hope.”

There was no reply.

“T’m going to be going downto The Brahms & Liszt near Covent Garden tonight to eyeball a few of Europe’s cognoscenti,” Warren said, finishing the sentence ina cynical tone. “Now I know you were very disappointed with my attitude regarding your training and think that running is the most important thing in the world short of those two bird-infested islands east of Aussie, but I was thinki—”

“Warren…”

Her interruption caused him to forget the rest of his sentence, realizing his invitation was not being well-received.

“~.. You’ll never change. You like your freedom too much, you’re too set in

your ways, you’ll never understand me taking my running so seriously, and you like a variety of women. But because you know I’m now unobtainable, you’re interested in me again.”

“But, 1…”

“You’re wasting your time, Warren. I could have given a great deal to you, but you are incapable of receiving. I’m sure your selfishness is necessary for your poetry, and you need to be alone more than ordinary people. But unfortunately I’m one of those predictable persons who likes someone who is willing to compromise a bit, who cares about my thoughts and habits, who respects my running above indulgence, and who can be depended upon to be there when needed. You are none of the above.”

Warren was staggered by her perceptiveness. But his English background as well as his years as a hustler made him search for the quick reply.

“Am I to interpret all of this as a form of rejection?”

“Terminal, Mr. Fowles. And in future I would never criticize a New Zealander’s love of country. They don’t take very kindly to it. Good luck, Warren. And goodbye.”

Before he could protest she had hung up.

“Fucking cunt,” he muttered before taking a massive swig of the old cognac. “These foreign chicks are all the same: no spirit of adventure.” But it bothered him that she had been right: he was extremely self-centered, but not because of his poetry. The truth was that most people bored the pants off of him. The common man was no more of interest than the number of ants he had crushed while walking. His attention span was extremely limited, perhaps because of having done and continuing to do so much reading, where thoughts were far more painstakingly organized and edited than those coming out of most people’s mouths.

Solian had a lovely ingenuous quality about her, but she was so unimaginative about how she spent her time. Sitting around with her to discuss literature was just not on the cards. And he couldn’t bring himself to take running even one quarter as seriously as she did. He was fed up with women who couldn’t think and perceive at his same speed, and who couldn’t enjoy with abandon some of the finer indulgences of life. Why should he put up with them? At least the vacuum brains of the West Coast at home knew how to have a good time and loosen up a bit. For the most part, in their behaviors in bed, they were much more abandoned, something he had experienced with certain German or Swedish girls—even though they tended to lack senses of humour—but not with any English women.

Warren glanced over at his poem lying upon the desk now illuminated by a temporary beam of sunlight streaming through his dirty front windows. He knew his concentration was shot to shit, and he hated to admit it, but he needed to go for arun. Actually he had been running four or five times a week to try and retrieve some of the conditioning level he had had during his college years, but after the tearful scene with Solian he had let it slide.

Minutes later he was rooting around in his closet to find the new EB Lydiard shoes he had purchased just to look different. Actually he thought the whole running shoe business was a bunch of crap foisted upon the public by ambitious businessmen. Warren felt he could run in anything, and he had even read of one Dutchman who had run a marathon in wooden shoes. He kicked a pair of tattered training shoes against the wall of the back of the closet in disgust when he couldn’t find the pair he was looking for. Though normally he wore them only for knocking around in, perhaps he would wear his Yankees. Then Warren remembered he had worn the EBs on a rainy day several days prior, leaving them caked in mud on the steps outside the kitchen door.

In his inimitable style—not bothering to warm up—he tore down Well Walk with a ferocity akin to a cheetah, an effort his cognac-saturated lungs found less appealing than his brain. He was nearly hit by a careening van while dashing without hesitation across East Heath Road, but undaunted—after flipping the appropriate high sign to the irate driver—he continued to blitz down the Boundary Path under its lifeless trees. A brisk breeze was blowing into his face, cutting right through his olive-green sweatshirt with the hood flapping behind it. On, on, he

tore like a Hash House Harrier with no tomorrows, slowing only periodically to avoid complete oxygen debt. He ran all the paths behind Kenwood’s Lily Pond, then crossed the South Meadow to do some brief wind sprints over the grassy football pitches. Solian had made him very angry, but the running was giving vent to his frustrations.

Then without warning, over the top of one of the hills came the scar-faced kid flying toward him. /’// run with the bugger, he told himself. As the blitzing pair of tan Mariahs with navy-blue laces pounded toward him, Warren slowed, then reversed direction and began to accelerate. The runner raised his right hand in greeting as the two began to run side by side.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Warren shouted into the wind while the two barreled down the grass back toward the South Meadow. The runner turned up a gravel path.

“Not if you can run as well as you play chess.”

“Just as reckless,” Warren gasped as the pace increased. “My opening moves aren’t bad . . . it’s just trying to hang on to the endgame that gets me…”

“Not bad,” the runner replied. “You’re about the only runner who’s tried to run with me who could stay with me up this path. You should take your running more seriously. Do you always run after drinking?”

“Tt’s that… obvious, huh?”

“Yah, it is. Do you normally drink during the middle of the day?”

“Not usually. I usually wait . . . until evenings.” Warren laughed between breaths while they cruised up the slight incline toward Kenwood. “What’s a guy like you doing wasting his time running . . . over the heaths every day? Couldn’t you be… winning money on the ARRA circuit or some such?”

“Maybe, but like I told you at Prompt Corner, I can’t handle the way people react to the way I look. It’s an easy thing for people to tell me I’m leaning on my appearance too much, but if you had seen some of the abuse I’ve received or the looks I’ve gotten, then you’d understand.”

“T do understand. But I take it you’re at least doing what you want.”

“Right,” the runner replied, taking the pace to near five minutes per mile again, “considering the circumstances.”

“Who are you?” Warren inquired after a brief period of flat running.

The runner sighed. “You know, I slowed down a little to accommodate you because I thought you would be the type of person who wouldn’t need to know that sort of thing—and also because I liked your OREGON sweatshirt—but usually I don’t run with anybody because I don’t want to answer questions like that.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem. Just don’t ask any questions and run along if you like.”

“Yah, I’m thinking of trying to run the Greater London Marathon in March. I think I could probably run under 2:30.”