Chapter 4 Miguel
Chapter four
Miguel
On Your Left
I easily walk across the room to turn off my alarm before starting my morning routine.
It's the one I developed in rehab when Jeff wasn’t my friend or training partner.
He was my group leader and told me he had never seen a body more designed to run come into his facility before.
I was greedy for compliments to bolster my wafer thin self esteem.
When he shared he was a college track coach and would help me create a running habit, I said yes.
The next morning Jeff knocked on my door at 5:05 a.m. I woke in a cold sweat as my body struggled to detox the cocktail of prescriptions I had been feeding it for years.
He helped me stand, took me to the sink to splash cold water on my face, and then waited while I laced up ratty old sneakers and joined him on a jog.
I barely made it a half a mile before losing the contents of my stomach on the sidewalk.
But, I was in that facility for forty-five days and I ran every morning thereafter.
When I came home and moved into my parent's apartment as a homeless, jobless, broke twenty-nine year old I kept running.
5:05 a.m. every day since.
The day after a race is no different. Soon I’ll need to turn this morning-after recovery routine into long-run training distances to help prepare me for the Deca but today it will be a light jog.
I stretch on the floor of my apartment as I eat a homemade energy bar with almond butter, dates, hemp seeds, oats, almonds, and egg whites.
I slip on my bio tracking watch and lace my sneakers.
Today is an easy six miles. Pre-dawn light filters across the city streets. As I come up from the tunnel under Lake Shore Drive to join the running path, I can envision how the sun will glisten across the water by the time I’m looping back to finish this run.
I start my run heading north and catch sight of blonde hair swishing left to right with each stride the incredibly fit girl takes.
What are the chances it’s the girl from the race?
Laney Matteson has been on my mind since she crashed into my life. Quite literally.
Before I drove home from Madison last night, I looked up her race results.
Classification: F30-34
She’s at least nine years younger than me.
Division Rank: 7
A top ten division finish after the chaotic start she had, impressive.
Gender Rank: 18
Not bad.
Overall Rank: 83
Again, a top 100 finish is worth celebrating.
Designation: Finisher
Her age gave me a moment’s pause.
There’s no denying how attractive I found her when I first laid eyes on her.
But now knowing she’s probably a decade younger than me?
It feels inappropriate for me to be attracted to her.
But the moral dilemma I struggled with in my waking moments, didn’t stop me from dreaming about her last night.
It would definitely be inappropriate for me to pursue her.
So why are you chasing after a woman you hope is her now?
Just look, don’t touch.
The notion is a special kind of pain all its own.
But pain is my friend. If I’m feeling pain, I’m working hard.
And Laney was working hard.
Her total time was good for 70.3 miles, a half TitaniumPerson distance. Her first transition took her ten minutes. T2 was fourteen. Way too long if she wants to be competitive in this sport.
My guess is Laney needs discipline, if her chaotic crash into the bikes before her race started is any indication.
Maybe I’ve gotten too used to elite positioning. My transitions are ideally under four minutes. Five if I take a nature break to relieve myself.
I remember those crowded transitions of the age categories when I first started competing. You might lose your row and not know where you need to be. A piece of your equipment might have gotten knocked out of place. Or it might just be too congested to get out of the transition area cleanly.
I remember the frustration of traffic jams.
But there is nothing in the way of me, or the girl running in front of me, now.
Her body moves fluidly as she jogs. There is a natural ease to her movements. Each footfall is swift and the muscles in her legs twitch to power her next stride.
Each elbow pulls back and pumps forward in turn on either side of a straight, well aligned back.
The single braid down her back pendulums from side to side in time with her steps.
Her hips?
The sway of her hips is hypnotizing.
From here I can see the early summer sunrise glint off the sheen of sweat she’s developed in the morning’s humidity.
A turn in the path around Belmont Harbor reveals her profile and I know it’s her.
How long has she been out this morning? What is her training plan? Was the half TP yesterday a warm up race for her? Is this a hobby for her?
Or is she like me and driven to excel?
The secret of high performance in endurance sports is mental fortitude. You prepare your body, you fuel it correctly, train it to do what you need it to do.
But no matter how prepared you are, by the time you start the marathon portion of a TP race, you’re metabolically exhausted. Your mind is screaming at you not to do what it knows you’re about to do.
And for most ametures, the day after is torture. Muscles burn, joints ache, your stomach feels hollow but churns in a way that makes the idea of eating a terrifying prospect.
By my second season running I had the day after under control. Three hundred and sixty-five days of training means each one hurts a little but I push through it regardless.
And while I thought today would be an easy run, my pace is noticeably faster than I was expecting.
Almost like my feet are motivated by the promise of getting her attention again.
I catch up to her quickly but instead of slowing down to run with her, I push past.
"On your left." I call out as I overtake her on the otherwise empty path.
"The fuck?" I hear her say and I continue at my pace past her.
I can feel her at my back. I know she isn't far. But for a few paces I am able to concentrate on my form and my mental focus. I hit that place where running becomes a meditation. Each thump of my foot sends vibrations through my body and relaxes me.
"On your left!" I hear as a blonde blur rushes past me.
In TP races you are racing the clock. What it comes down to is the person who slows down the least ends up winning. Yeah, you’re out there against other competitors, but very rarely do things come down to a foot race between two athletes.
For thirteen years I have been running my own race. And it has won me several and kept me competitive.
So I couldn't tell you the reason I quickened my pace to catch her again.
Liar.
I can absolutely tell you but I’m not ready to admit how attracted I am to this magnetic force of a woman.
"On your left." I announce as I breeze past her again. But not quickly enough to miss the flush of her cheeks and her youthful glow.
"Oh, hell no." She says as she runs faster, matching me stride for stride. "Left!"
I let her cut in front of me for three seconds, take a quick glance at the round globes of her pert backside, before I burst forward. "Left!"
The trail curves along the lakeshore and the sun burns a little hotter with each quarter mile we put behind us in this double helix formation, swirling around each other in turn.
"On your left!" She grunts as she surges forward.
I catch her satisfied smile as she passes me.
What is it about this woman that drives me to act in ways I've never acted before?
I ignore my training pace and wonder what my Garmin is going to record for this run as I sprint past her again. It’s possible I didn’t fuel enough for this intensity. I’ll need to be mindful of my energy as I loop back towards home.
Our dance continues until she peels off the course and takes the path under Lake Shore Drive on the north side of the city. I must have picked her up on her return run from Museum Campus. That would have been about the right mileage for a recovery run.
The temptation to follow her is strong but I settle myself and get back into my mindset for a training run.
I wasn’t planning on the extra effort, the quicker pace, when I left this morning, but I can’t help but hope trying to keep pace with Laney will benefit me in the long run.