special book bonus

Chris makes a date to run a sub-5:00 mile with the Purple Runner. Part 9.

Chapter 23

66 lhings are goin’ well with that wee New Zealander of yairs, then?” “Sure are.”

Watson Doyle leaned back in his favorite wing chair underneath a French flag protruding from the wall; this bit of memorabilia having been purloined during a running weekend in Normandy.

“You doana look good, laddie. I doana mean yair fitness—you look fit enough and I reckon yai’re ready to do that sub-three-hour marathon, but yai’re a wee bit pale.”

“Mmm,” Chris nodded. “Yah, well I haven’t been feeling all that well lately. I have to take some drugs for a condition I have, and they’ve been making me feel sick at my stomach. Sometimes I think I’m going to have to cut back on my training.”

“What’s this aboot droogs, then?”

“It’s nothing serious,” Chris replied. “Just something for the old allergies.”

“Well, I would quit takin’ them if I wair you. Droogs never did anyone any gude. They’re usually wairse than the illness. They’ll slow y’ down and yair trainin’ will fall off. You won’t be able to get the proper miles in. Take two days off from roonin’, laddie. They’ll do you better than any droogs. You’ve probably been pooshin’ yairself a wee bit too hard. Skip two days and then alternate long and short mileage verra slowly fair the next 10-12 days before you begin t’ taper the week befair the marathon. Next week after you feel a bit better, do 12-15 stride-outs at a gudely pace—but not too fast—on two afternoons. But watch those ankles. You doana want to tairn that ankle again just befair the marathon.

Yai’re half a stune lighter now, anyway, and you’ve averaged 75 miles pair week from December through to this bluddy day in February, so you doana have a thing to worra aboot.”

“T just wish I felt stronger. I’ve just been feeling weaker.”

“It’s those droogs, laddie. Throw them out. And as you’ve spent so many weeks preparin’ fair this one race, yai’re worryin’ aboot it too mooch. Consider it this way: if you doana break three hours in the Greater London, they’ll always be another. You’ve got to relax more. Have a few meals with that Kiwi lass of yairs and an occasional beer or glass of wine or two — and I know you’ve given up the drink again, but I think yair nairves are gettin’ the best of you. I doana mean that you should go out and drink yairself silly, but the odd pint or two or glass of wine isna goin’ t’ hairt you a wee bit.” They both took sips of their tea. “And remember, laddie, you did roon an 82-minute half marathon at Balham Beeches, did y’ not, so you are definitely ready. Just remember that yair trainin’ is all behind you now. You just need another twelve days of long easy mileage and you’ll crack that marathon.”

Chris’ legs felt like lead as he ran across the walk above Parliament Hill track, but his coach’s talk had cheered him up. Then the nausea struck again and he almost doubled over in pain. If he could hang on for another three weeks, he told himself. Just relax. You can do it. He felt embarrassed and hoped no one from Heathgate had observed either his stomach problem or his extremely fatigued running form.

After pretending to stretch as unobtrusively as possible while resting against a fence, he was able to continue up the path along the Highgate Lakes. An easterly wind was blowing more cloud masses overhead, and the damp T-shirt underneath his warmup jacket made him feel as if the cold were penetrating his inner soul.

Wham! Just as Chris was making his way up Fitzroy Park, there was the mysterious American harrier pounding on the back fender of an expensive British car. What looked to be an old mint Bentley was spewing out a noxious blue-black cloud of mixed fumes into the runner’s face as its driver backed into his path.

Within seconds a gigantic beet-faced man dressed in all white, perhaps for a bowls match, leapt from the car to confront the brash American. Chris slowed to a jog as he gradually closed on the pair.

“Just what the devil do you think you are doing with that cuff of yours — oh, no!” the man abruptly sputtered before heaving a huge sigh upon noticing the runner’s face. “Another blasted inmate let loose from Whittington ward! I’m surprised you’re not wearing pajamas.”

“Are you aware you almost ran me over as you backed out of your driveway, and that your car’s spewing out great clouds of pollutants from its exhaust?” the runner returned in anger, his hands on his hips.

Andy Yelenak

“My dear fellow, had I been aware of my progress I would have made a better job of it, I assure you; and as for what is being emitted from my car, it is good for the trees and helps to keep the insects down, not to mention the decided advantage of discouraging every man and his dog from pounding down the lane in some sort of frenetic flogging of women’s lingerie.”

“Tf I see this car putting out the same kinds of fumes again, especially because of the high lead levels found in schoolchildren in the area, I’m going to report you to the police.”

“Bloody cheeky yank. You do go and report me. Because if your little pinky so much as glances off the paint on this motor car again,” the man apoplectically and loudly asserted, moving closer to the runner, “I shall make certain you yourself receive a high level of lead without taking a breath.”

“C’mon, Billie. Take it easy now. There are no smog laws here,” Chris urged, taking the runner by the arm. “This most considerate man’s not going to change things.”

“Yes, that’s right. Take this fellow inmate of yours on up the lane before I lose my temper and alter the other side of his less than attractive physiognomy.”

With this remark the runner, veins straining against his arms, lunged at the man, but Chris firmly restrained him.

“C’mon, Billie. It’s no use. The guy is liable to have a myocardial infarct if we hang around much longer. He’s got enough problems dealing with moving bulk like that around without worrying about his car. And he obviously doesn’t have all that much concern about lead levels in children or. . .”

The huge barrel of a man was moving toward the two with steam practically coming out of his ears, but they had turned their backs on him and were jogging up the lane. “Go on back to Ireland or America, or wherever migrant psychotics are accepted,” he hurled, shaking his fist in the air.

Further on up the lane near the turnoff to the bowling club, the two began to smirk.

“What an apoplectic wanker,” Chris laughed.

“Tt really isn’t funny, but I have to admit the guy did look like a beet about to burst.”

A minute later the runner came to a halt near the allotment gardens. “Well, ll see you later. I’ve got to check on some plants I have growing up here.”

“You have plants growing here? How did you get permission to have a plot? Aren’t there long waiting lists?”

“T didn’t. I found a little space that wasn’t in use—just some lettuce for salads and a few other things. Anyway,” the runner said, indicating his desire to part company, “I’ll see you out on the heath sometime.”

“O.K.,” Chris replied with a touch of dejection in finding the conversation was terminating. “But .. . do you think maybe I could—I mean, just once—run with you sometime to see what it feels like to run below five minutes per mile — maybe just for a half a mile or so?”

The runner grinned and slapped Chris on the shoulder. “Sure,” he nodded. “Tell you what: meet me at the bench on the top of the North Wood trail tomorrow morning at seven-thirty. Give yourself at least a two-mile warmup. We’ ll run down to the wooden gate and then step it out from there. We’ll see how long you can hang on,” the runner winked with his better eye.

“Great. Thanks a lot, Billie.”

The runner smiled, a glint coming from the deep brown eye. “See you then,” he waved before pulling the ancient iron gate open.

Inside his flat Chris began to feel the nausea again. His entire body ached and he started to get dizzy. He sat in a chair in the hope that sitting would lessen the pain, but it didn’t. Concentration on an article about the Western States 100 in the New Zealand Runner became impossible, the magazine slowly slipping through his fingers.

Suddenly he became aware of the phone ringing.

“T hope your preparations for that marathon are well in hand,” the voice of Mr. Armathwaite said over the phone.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Armathwaite. Yes, I hope they are, too,” Chris responded with what he hoped sounded like some enthusiasm. “I certainly have been putting in the miles, but you just never know until the day of the race.”

“You don’t, do you. But then I am quite certain you will do well. You seem to be very faithful to your training. Everything else all right, then?”

“Just fine.”

“Good, good. Well, unfortunately I have to be a bearer of bad tidings. Those scoundrels from the council are raising the rates again. You would think with two men watching every one man work that they could sack two-thirds of their lot, but they keep paying them anyway. My protestations seem to fall on deaf ears. They obviously think my pockets are bottomless. Anyway—not to labour the point—unfortunately I am having to raise the rents on all the flats by twenty pounds for the March quarter inasmuch as I simply have no control over their actions. In future I shall drop you a note with the particular amount. I wish you all the best in your coming venture. I’d like to chat longer, you see, but the wife wants me to scamper up to the village for the odd purchase now, so I shall have to ring off. Cheerio.”

“Cheers,” Chris feebly replied, hanging up the phone.

His collapse back into the chair was immediate. Just what he needed on top of his already deteriorating physical condition. But he quickly put the matter out of his mind and concentrated on whether he would call Solian and cancel their afternoon run. He hated to do that since things had been going so well. In the last two months his relationship with her had grown enormously and the two had been spending more and more time together. Weekends at races, training runs together when she had finished the harder parts of her sessions, shared meals: the pleasures of her company were almost indescribable. Chris had even harbored a silent hope that she might invite him to move in with her.

But then his physical condition had begun to slip just like the doctors had told him it would, until he felt he wasn’t going to make it. When Solian’s invitation to move in finally did come, he had told her that although it would give him the greatest of pleasure, he wasn’t sure he could get out of his lease agreement at the Oaks. In actuality his hedging on the proposal had been more in fear of burdening her with his physical problems he had been disguising from her. Later, upon her second or third attempt at questioning his now undisguised painful reactions and sallow appearances, he had told her, in confidence, of the probabilities of deterioration. Solian had been very supportive, but Chris still felt it would be best not burdening her with his health problem.

Now he sat in the chair and wondered if he was even going to be able to make it out the door for their afternoon run. After two cups of tea he felt strong enough to make the attempt, deciding against the phone call.

Chapter 24

When she looked in the mirror to brush her hair, Solian considered wearing makeup on her afternoon run. Elizabeth always looked so glamourous while running; but then Solian knew that wearing makeup while training just wasn’t

her style. Besides, her darker complexion didn’t need any artificial colouring to give it a lifelike appearance in winter. It was just that sometimes her size made her feel very unfeminine, and she looked for ways to counteract this feeling. That was one of the things she liked about Chris: he was tall enough to make her forget her height.

Slipping her black track suit on over her running gear, Solian daydreamed about how much better her racing had been going. Since she had been seeing Chris, everything seemed to be coming along marvelously. No injuries, no psychological problems; she was eating and sleeping well—in fact not just eating well, but less, because she was sharing meals. She had also stayed away from drinking for months and it had paid off. Her eight solid 100-mile weeks with racing and without undue fatigue left her feeling a great deal of self-confidence. Even if she didn’t win the Greater London Marathon, she felt certain there was an excellent chance of finishing high in the standings.

She zipped up her jacket, strapped on her black chronograph, tied her shoestrings, and walked to the front door with unbridled enthusiasm.

Forty-eight minutes later after two hard loops round the heath, her path intersected Chris’ near the Kenwood Concert Pond. The two nearly flew into each other’s arms and kissed deeply several times. Solian was torn between the lack of propriety of this public display of affection and the sheer excitement of doing so. Anyway, no one was in sight. She looked up into Chris’ eyes and noticed he looked tired and wan.

“So how are you?” he asked.

“Well. Are you feeling O.K.?”

“Mmm,” Chris answered before hugging her again. “C’mon, then,” he smiled, pulling away from her to jog up the hill.

Solian was worried: they were barely moving over the top of the North Wood, yet Chris was struggling. He seemed to be disguising some deep pain. His breathing was irregular and laboured, yet he was maintaining a jocularity which wasn’t ringing true. Beyond the wooden gate near the Kenwood gardener’s cottage, however, he appeared to be feeling better.

Suddenly a runner strode toward them, giving Solian an uneasy feeling: it was Warren and he was flying. She felt powerless as he slowed and then reversed his direction to be able to run with them.

“Fancy meeting the two of you out here,” he said with a certain bravado. “How far you going?”

“Probably only about six,” Chris replied with less than enthusiasm. “And we’re going very slowly because I’ve been feeling a bit of flu coming on.”

Solian could tell that Chris was very ill at ease with Warren joining them. She was totally devoid of any feelings for Warren now, and she had related that to Chris earlier, but she knew how he felt.

Andy Yelenak

“Ah well, you know what they say about the beginnings of such things. You can burn them out if you heat up the body enough with a good hard run,” Warren smiled, gradually picking up the pace.

Solian objected. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to run hard on a virus, whether it’s at an early stage or late st—”

“Nonsense,” Warren interrupted. “If you have a virus then you definitely don’t want to race on it because you can drive it into your heart, but if you nip it in the bud you can burn it out.”

“T think it would be best if I just sort of took it easy,” Chris quietly disagreed. “T just don’t feel that well.”

“T’ll tell you what, Christopher, old bean: what say we run up through the meadow to Spaniards Road and then kick it down through Sandy Heath to the bottom of the Heath Extension. That’s only a little over a mile, and it’s all down hill. But it should heat you up enough to burn out that virus. Whadya say you give it a try?”

Solian knew Warren was just making a show of his male feathers on her behalf, and also to demonstrate he was a better runner than Chris, a gesture which was really having the opposite effect upon her. Instead she was feeling quite protective of Chris and his physical state, a condition Warren knew nothing about. She hoped that perhaps if they ran fast with him to the bottom of the Extension, he would then become impatient when they slowed, and take off on his own.

“Mmm . .. I just think it would be better if I r-—”

“Aw, c’mon, Chris. It’ll do you good.”

“O.K.,” Chris reluctantly replied. “Why not? Maybe it’Il make me feel better.” The three waited for several cars to pass before threading their way through the white wooden roadside fence to cross Spaniards Road, then Warren galloped down the embankment and wound between the trees over the leaf-strewn mounds and muddy patches. Solian would have preferred Chris to follow, but he signalled her to run down first. In Indian file they crossed the uneven terrain, scampering over the Sandy Road forming the ridge across the middle of the stark area. She could hear Chris wheezing and it didn’t sound healthy at all.

“Solian, I…” She suddenly heard Chris utter behind her.

While still running she looked round to see Chris stumble toward an elm tree, grasp at it, then sag down to the cold floor of the barren heath. Like a shot she reversed her direction, her adrenalin surging, while Warren pounded obliviously on. She reached the crumpled, barely breathing figure lying on its side, and knelt down on one slender knee beside it.

“Chris,” her voice quavered, “are you all right?”

“No…no…I’m not,” he softly answered, his head resting upon a small mound of leaves and mud. “I’m sorry, Solian,” he continued with extreme effort. “T guess … I would never have made… a good runner…”

“Don’t worry, Chris,” she trembled. “I’ll go back to Spaniards Road and get a taxi to take us home. You’ll be all r—”

“No…no… too late. Tell Billie… 2m sorry …I let him down…’

Solian could feel Chris’ scalp becoming cold as she ran her hand gently through his wet hair to brush off some leaves.

°

“”..and tell… Steve …Ican’t make…ss…ss…seven—”

“Chris, Chris!” Solian frantically cried. “I couldn’t hear what you said! I couldn’t hear you!” she begged, shaking his limp head from side to side. “Chris! Oh, Chris, please!” For a fleeting moment she became aware of Warren squatting down beside her.

“What happened? He really looks bad. I hope I didn—”

“Chris! Chris, answer me!” she sobbed, pulling his head toward her chest.

Warren picked up Chris’ slack wrist and held it for a few seconds; then slowly let it drop back into the leaves before releasing a sigh through his lips.

“T think . . . he’s dead.”

Chapter 25

“Tf they say I never loved you . . .” resonated the voice of Jim Morrison throughout the runner’s subterranean chamber, the sounds of the smoldering hearth and babbling tributary of the Fleet River occasionally bleeding through during softer portions of the music.

.195…196… 197…” counted the runner with the completion of each bent-legged situp. It was 7:00 a.m. and he was running through his morning calisthenics before taking off to meet the guy from Los Angeles. “. . . into your blue, blue, blue . . .” wailed Morrison. While finishing his situps and beginning some pushups he contemplated how ridiculous his whole identity situation was getting. Chris had even told him he looked like one of the persons he might actually be! Before long the curious American would want to know if he was a famous American runner. Then what was he going to say? He couldn’t even give an honest answer because he wasn’t even sure himself if he was indeed the runner everyone thought dead, the missing runner, the English runner or a lookalike. He was probably going to have to keep a low profile again for a while until people’s curiosities faded.

He laughed as he looked up and saw the Washington State ottoman and the poster on the wall of the famous runner sitting on the grass. /s that me sitting there? If anyone were to be admitted to his specially decorated inner sanctum and its memorabilia, they would soon be making their own deductions. But no one, as far as the runner was concerned, was ever going to be allowed to make that discovery. He was willing to avoid the hundreds of questions by making the sacrifice of any potential friendship. “21 …22…23…24…”

Bounding up the spiral staircase in his Mariahs and purple nylon warmups he wished he could run in what he thought to be his former racing colors, but realized they would make things too obvious. On the 217th of 227 steps, 16 more than the other entrance due to it being at a higher location, he pressed the button unlocking the spring-held plate underneath the bench amidst the rock gardens of the Oaks; veered down the tunnel over to the iron ladder climbing up into the partially hollowed-out redwood tree; and scampered up inside it. After he had pushed out the tiny bark plugs on the four sides of the tree to look out and make sure no one was about, he replaced the plugs and hurriedly made his exit out of the trapdoor unobserved. Normally the garden bench exit was used only under cover of darkness, but there was very little light in late February at that time of the morning.

Leaving the Oaks property through a hole in the bushes, he warmed up down the lane at an easy 6:45-per-mile pace, picking it up by the time he reached the path descending between the Highgate Lakes almost a half mile later. On the blacktop path leading down to Parliament Hill track he began moving at about 4:50 pace, his eight-liter lungs swallowing massive amounts of oxygen.

Then along the sidewalk beside the track he overtook two club runners moving at a healthy pace like they were standing still. After passing them he could hear a lull in their conversation, telling him they were waiting until he was out of earshot so they could comment. Blow them out! he thought as he strode out toward the corner of the playing fields. He knew the Englishmen would have liked

to “take the mickey” out of his purple outfit by saying something as he went by but hadn’t because of his pace. If you ran an eight-minute pace in a purple outfit, people laughed; but if you ran a 4:45 pace wearing a purple outfit, people merely commented on how the best runners got all the latest colorful warmups free.

Over the top of the heath a stiff crosswind was blowing through the barren trees as the runner kicked under them on nearly frozen ground. What the hell am I doing in bloody England! he complained to himself. Washington and Oregon are not like this shit! Next time wear the hooded sweatshirt under your warmups, stupid!

Many times during the British winter he had approached the gardening shack door with hands numbed from the cold and had been unable to grasp the key. Each time he told himself to wear more the next time out, but then it always got warmer. The English winter, or for that matter, the weather in general, was so entirely unpredictable that one day it could be freezing, then the following day be relatively warm and sunny. As unpredictable as the English themselves.

There were few fellow runners out as he galloped over the small rolling trail of Kenwood to the wooden gate. Just the usual souls walking their hounds. When he reached the bench atop the North Wood path and finally felt warmed up, a veil of fog hung amidst the trees. He glanced down at his watch: 7:29.

By twenty to eight, still no Californian. He jogged down the path about 75 yards and then back up again. Christopher was not the type of person to keep him waiting, especially since it was apparent he idolized his abilities.

By 7:50 the runner was getting cold. He hated waiting on anyone. Where is that turkey? Chris had seemed so set on getting “his big chance,” the runner was really surprised the guy hadn’t shown. Maybe he screwed up the time. Upon further reflection he realized he never should have agreed to meet anyone in the middle of a run during the winter.

Well, that’s it, he finally told himself at five minutes to eight. A full professor wouldn’t be entitled to as much time.

Following a steady effort of about eleven miles around the heaths the runner steamed up Fitzroy Park to the allotments. He slowed his pace while a Rolls Royce slowly glided by, then finding the gate padlocked, climbed over the picket fence.

During the penning of an elaborate description of all the particulars of his morning run in his training log, occasionally he would glance up at various cubby holes of the oak roll-topped desk in front of him and recalculate what could have happened to Chris. Maybe he had gotten sick and had no way to contact him. Too much thinking and negative energy, he told himself, bounding out of his chair and heading for the corner of the cave containing his makeshift kitchen. He switched on the radio and began to listen to an interview with Sir Ranulph Fretheby Whitelinen, the City’s liaison to the coming Greater London Marathon.

“. . Staggering problem, isn’t it?” “Mmm, well, eggzuelly, it isn’t as bad as all that, what with the assistance of the greater metropolitan police, the large staff of unpaid voluntyahs, and the prodigious list of helpful sponsors.” “Mmm. So you believe these 15,000 runners can be processed without . . .” The runner was chopping up an apple and made a mental note to be sure and watch the event on television on the upcoming week from Sunday. Then while still standing he began to chomp through a huge bowl of toasted muesli, molasses, sliced apple, and milk. “. . . don’t expect someone like Miss Ruiz, then?” “We simply have to take certain precautions to guard agaynst just such an occurrence, but really the typical runner here in London seems to be quite an honest sort. We may get the odd chap wanting to include his dog in the event, but we accept only those bona fide runners having evidenced a certain disciplined regimen of preparation or completion of a similar previous event.” “And will you, yourself, Sir Ranulph, be running in this year’s event?” “Hah, hah, no, I’m afraid I shan’t be able to tun in the event myself. Too much time spent on answering queries on radio programmes, as it we—”

The jangling of the phone suddenly interrupted the runner’s attention.

“Everything going smoothly down upon the Styx?” a voice crackled.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Armathwaite. Mmm-huh, everything’s going fine. I was just listening to a radio interview about the upcoming Greater London Marathon.”

“Ah, yes. Were I a younger man I should be out there plodding with the rest of them. Something you, yourself should consider by the way—oh, I know you’re worried about someone discovering your identity and all that rot, but you cannot hide forever. The race might do you good: make you feel a social animal again.”

“Now, now, Mr. Armathwaite. You know how I feel about racing and other people. You have no ide—”

“Come, come. I have more than an ideyah. If one is to worry about the appearance of one’s face in consideration of whether or not to enter an athletics

event, there would be few entries. The scarring on your face is no worse than having the squatty body Ihave. My neck constantly hurts from having to look up at people, but where would I be were I to cite a Napoleonic complex and refuse to meet my fellow men. Don’t squander your ability. If | were you, I should think about running that marathon — but point laboured enough. You’d think I were cheering on Old Blue or some such.

“However, speaking of runners and the Greater London Marathon brings me to the unpleasant nature of my call. It seems that one of my tenants who is a runner himself has dropped dead while out running. Maybe you know him. Tall, red-headed chap. Christopher Carlson.”

Shock shot through the runner like he had been hit by an electric cattle prod.

“You’re kidding.”

“Tm afraid I’m not.”

“TI was supposed to meet him out on the heath and he never showed. Now I know…know… well, how…Imean…”

“Quite shocking, isn’t it. The fellow practically lived out on the heaths. Loved them, and seemed quite obsessed with running. Thought him quite fit, mind you. Fellow looked it. But apparently all the while he was dying of cancer, or so his parents tell me. Don’t think he told a soul, unless he had told the poor sobbing girl from New Zealand who telephoned. Seemed totally shattered, poor dear. It’s a pity, really. Such a young man, and quite a cheerful sort. Kept to himself, mostly. But then I’m sure you have other things to attend to—” J guess I won’t be meeting him again, the runner sadly thought to himself while his benefactor continued. “_s9 I won’t keep you much longer. In any case, his parents have asked me to ship back—that is, with the body—indelicate, that—all of his personal effects with the exception of his running gear. Suggested that I give it all away to one of his running friends. Problem is, I haven’t a clue as to who they might be. Wondered if you might like some of the books and gear?”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” the runner answered, “but I think it would be better if maybe you called the Heathgate Harriers and asked them who his stuff should go to.”

“Good ideyah, that. Certain you are right, now you mention it. Why didn’t that occur to me? Getting senile, I suppose. Well, I must now see to this tragic business. Death and dying never come at opportune moments. Awkward state of affairs. Parents quite anxious and all that. I must ring off. Do drop a note or give a ring if there’s anything you need. Cheerio.”

So that was it. Now everything fit into place. The tired and pale look and the wish to run with him. He knew he was going to die and just wanted to run with me before he did. And I let him down. All the offers of friendship the guy had made to him and he had rejected him just like all the others. God, he must have been running in pain all those months.

The runner plopped into the great chair in front of the fireplace, suddenly very saddened and overwhelmingly guilty over Chris. He had realized only too late how much Chris had looked up to him and had wished to be like him. Why hadn’t he given just a little for once? Well, at least he had agreed to meet him for arun before he died. What a way to go: cancer. Suddenly the runner’s problems seemed so inconsequential. Chris was just one more example of why life should be lived to the fullest: because it could never be known when the gift was going to be taken away. And Mr. Armathwaite was right. If he had any guts he’d run the Greater London.

But then he looked in the mirror at his grotesque face. The good side was still scarred enough that the chance of anyone recognizing him was extremely remote; but the tremendous explanations he’d have to give if someone did. When it came down to it, his quiet life of solitude would have to remain the same: he was unwilling to experience the untold agonies of so many people staring at his face should he win the race. Yet it wasn’t really a question of winning, but rather of winning by how much. He knew he could run under 2:08, but the question was: how much under?

Chapter 26

The bluddy young pup had to go and die, Watson Doyle thought to himself. The telephone call from Basil Armathwaite sure had surprised him. The poor lad really had been sick after all. And here he had mentioned a couple of days off! His prize pupil, dead! He had been such a nice laddie, too. Never complaining about workouts, keeping a strict discipline going, and very mild-mannered—quite different from some of the other American blokes he had met.

The air felt quite warm with its various flowered scents coming his way. It was very strange for late winter, he thought, for usually March was merely an extension of cold, blustery February. That morning he had pondered for quite a while over whether a 30-mile run five days before the Greater London was prudent, but then it was only a fraction of his anticipated total of 130 miles during race week. Two weeks earlier he had hit his high of 200 miles, and although he hadn’t run them as fast as Clayton allegedly had in his era, he knew how the poor bugger must have felt.

Doyle’s weight was down to nine stone, and constantly the question arose in his mind as to whether he could break 2:30. His sinewy quadriceps were now like fused iron; the gaps between them had become large now he had lost so much weight. The Scot was still extremely fatigued from his long series of 150-plusmile weeks, and having never amassed such a pre-race total, was unsure as to just how much he should taper for the race. His plan was to run 20-15-10, then a day off.

A long string of gamboling schoolboys began to stream past him along the winding Dollis Creek path as he continued on. Their camaraderie made him acutely aware of just how lonely he was. With his wife gone ten years he felt himself wishing they would have had some wee little ones. He had found it very pleasant having the young American lad round for tea and chats. Ah, sure there were the blokes from the club who came over on Tuesdays, the odd meal with a fellow harrier or two, or a pint with some of the lads, but most of his days were spent alone. Even most of his meals were eaten while reading Athletics Weekly or watching telly. And what with the money he received on the dole, there were few activities to be afforded which would put him into contact with other people.

He wished he could afford to fly to America, where he had heard top veteran runners often got expenses paid to races. But his efforts to find employment at his age had been fruitless. It was easy to talk about his freedom to run, but truthfully, he couldn’t eat running. There was—thanks to Thatcherism, he felt—just nothing there. Anyway, running is sure a bluddy sight easier on th’ dole, he told himself, brightening. Pairhaps I’ll loouk fair another job aftair the Greater London. But fairst I’ve got to be ready to bash out a sub 2:30.

The Purple Runner will continue in the March/April 2012 issue.