April was halfway to a two Snickers sugar buzz and was grateful to be alive. She was pounding through her work in record time, replying to three month's worth of e-mail-all at once in one mass, slightly hysterical rambling e-mail-and had changed her e-mail signature to read "Today is the greatest day of your life. Trust me, I know". She spouted about how she was saved by the Benadryl, and encouraged everyone she knew to set up their own personal Benadryl alter at their desks in order to properly worship the god that had inadvertently saved her. There was much snickering by the recipients in the Cube Farm, but April didn't care, so was high on life and Snickers bars.
Death sat on the windowsill fuming. His nebulous black presence filtered out all light, making it look like it was dusk. But only in the window in which he sat. Through the other windows, it looked like the brilliant summer morning that it was. Some of April's coworkers noticed this, but no one was motivated enough to hoist themselves from their chairs to try to figure out why one the view from window was nearly black and the others not. Some of her more industrious coworkers tried to look the phenomenon up on wikipedia.com, but since they didn't have a concrete name for it, it made searching it out a challenge. Some spent hours trying to come up with answers, but death, though technically invisible must still have given off some eerie vibe, as no one moseyed over to see what he looked like close up.
Death could not believe that she could get that lucky. Again. It was getting old, and now his beach plans were shot to hell, as well as his weekend frisbee football tournament plans. There was no way to recover and stay within his proscribed forty-hour workweek. Now he was going to have to get his supervisor to sign off on his working of the weekend, and at this point, that was the best-case scenario. The worst- case scenario would be to have to hand this case over to his boss and let her finish April off. Asking for that kind of assistance was for the losers-nobody wanted to escalate to Deader, that kind of thing had a way of coming back to haunt you at performance evaluation time. Not to mention raise time. CRAP! It was time to get mean and ugly and to work smarter, not harder. If only he could figure out what that meant, he might be able to pull it off.....
Death skulked in the window looking for answers, sending tiny black clouds soaring across the ceiling of the cube farm, further puzzling the Wikkies who struggled to find meaning for them, while taking video of the scuttling clouds on their cell phones and calling CNN to report their weird indoor weather. How could she die? It had to be fast-like now. It had to be painful, as she was really starting to piss him off and it had to let him dissipate so he could move on to his next stop. He still had eighteen people to knock off by his department's next update meeting, which would be Monday meeting. It was now Friday, near lunchtime for those who could still ingest solid foods.
Lunchtime.... Somehow April's lunch was going to kill her. This was Plan D and he couldn't go any farther than that, so it had to work. That was it- wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she would choke to death, it would be lonely and painful and she's be conscious for two to three minutes, so she'd get to look in his face as she checked out and he would triumph. He drifted back toward her desk to figure out what she had planned for lunch.
April, who usually walked for an hour on her lunch, was trying to figure out the same thing. She was feeling lazy, did she want to get her three miles in today, making over fifteen miles for the week? Or did she want to go nap in the car and try to get close to the recommended eight hours of sleep that she was three hours short on for last night alone? She wasn't that hungry, since the celebratory Snickers infusion, so she grabbed her apple and put her coat on. She would decide once she got outside if she was walking just to her car, or out to the "Nature Trail", which mostly portrayed the ills of human nature over any other kind, but underneath the flotsam of litter, running water was visible flowing through the creek bed.
She grabbed an apple from her fruit bowl. April hated to shop and hated to run out of things even more, so when she did finally shop, she bough in quantity and she bought two of everything, so that she had a full supply of food at work. This worked fine for bagels and small quantities of fruit to be eaten quickly, but sometimes the bowl of rapidly decomposing fruit and its accompanying flies was an issue in the Cube Farm. Today, however, there were just a few items of barely ripe and still firm fruit, so there had been no protestors about. A few more days, however...and they'd all be out there circling with their signs and chanting in front of her cube in support of the decaying fruit.
April bit into her apple, just as her e-mail notification dinged. She sat back down to read the e-mail while chewing a too-large bite of apple. Or trying to chew. Death, perched on her desk next to her monitor screen smirked as he watched each movement of her jaw muscles. He was counting down. NOW. April swallowed, realizing too late that she hadn't chewed that chunk of Granny Smith's bitter apple nearly enough. The chunk lodged in her throat and shut down her airway. She was beginning to panic, she realized that she could not 'cough, speak or breathe', like the posters all say and would dearly love some intervention. But everyone else was at lunch. Those folks are never late to a meal, and no one was around. She quickly traipsed through the cubes, looking for just one hard working person who didn't run off to lunch at the stroke of noon (or, knowing her co-workers, half an hour before noon.) She found no one.
Her eyes started to bulge out of their sockets and their watering sent salty tears cascading down her face. She thought it ironic that while she was choking to death, she could still taste the salt of her own tears. She thought about calling 9-1-1, but realized that they couldn't arrive soon enough to save her. She recognized that she was down to a minute, maybe thirty seconds left. She hurled herself against the wall, but this resulted in the apple wedging itself deeper yet and breaking her left radius, not that that would matter much longer.
April couldn't believe that it could end this way. She touched up her lipstick and brushed her hair. She was aware that a whole bunch of people would soon be staring at her lifeless body, for the last time in fact, so she may as well look as good as possible under the circumstances. Her final thought was of her dogs waiting for her at home. Death's leer could practically be heard from a mile away and his celebratory dance-a combination of the moonwalk, the cabbage patch and a little bit of the bus stop-was inspired.
April didn't hear the door open, nor feel the resonant booming voice of Dumpy's boss as he strolled into the farm. He came up behind her, assuming that she was reading the e-mail still open on her screen and heartily whacked her on the back a few times in his typical hello gesture. This was his normal greeting, and while she had come to hate it and mastered avoiding interacting with him after the last time when he broke three ribs and she bit off and swallowed the tip of her tongue, this time she could not resist.
Death, watching the events unfold, screamed "NO!" He formed dark circling clouds and tried to blot out Dumpy's boss, but to no avail.
Dumpy's boss hid his surprise at the resulting violent explosion of air and still recognizable apple that splattered across her monitor, as he glanced at her slick, reddened face her eyes popped open (she had closed them- she didn't want everyone to see her body with bulging eyes and was worried that closing a dead person's eyes wasn't as easy as they made it look on TV.) He stepped back. She breathed deeply, aware that for the second time in barely as many hours, she had escaped death. As her brain's oxygen supply returned to normal, she was beginning to notice a pattern. And she didn't like it.
Death was reduced to hysterical tears, sobbing and screaming and thinking about how this woman clearly has one hell of a guardian angel looking out for her. What the hell was he going to do now? Time to call in help, even if it means a demotion. There could be other powers at work here, powers that he didn't even know about, much less have any idea how to defeat...
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
The Stalker, continued
Continued from 11/8/07:
Death couldn’t believe the dumb luck. It must be April’s lucky day. Too bad she would not get to appreciate it for long.
Death sighed. Actually, he swore a blue streak. He could not believe that this idiot was going to ruin his afternoon at the beach! Not only that, but he was already behind on his claims for the day and he may never get a chance to catch up. He may have to work on the weekend and there was nothing that Death’s minions hated more than working on the weekend. He was getting mad and as such, he was taking off the gloves. So much for quick and painless- this time she would know what hit her. She would feel the pain and know that her last moments were ebbing from her soon to be lifeless body and that there was nothing she could do about it.
Upon her hurried arrival at work, April ran for the door, hoping to get to her cube unnoticed. Once there, with the computer on, she could pretend that she had been there for an hour already, and then casually go out to get a coffee refill. No one would realize that it was her first cup and that every cell of her being was screaming for its morning caffeine fix.
Death was way ahead of her. What are the best ways to die at work? Scalded to death by coffee? Too messy. Lightning strike through the window? Seems farfetched but he may be able to swing it. A raging pack of pit bulls? Maybe later, on her lunch break, but this had to be over by then. Electrocuted by a chamomile tea-dipped iPod headphone? Not sure that would do anything but make her ear sticky. Carbon monoxide leak? That would work, if he wanted big numbers, but frankly it seemed wasteful to take so many when you just want the one. Something creative. He was mad and now he wanted to get even with the pain of her death. THINK.
April was sitting quietly at her desk, after getting her coffee and downing some Benadryl for a runny nose. She was a hypochondriac and kept a drawer full of medicine at her desk, just in case. This made her popular with the meth-making cleaning crowd, as they could no longer buy some of the drugs, but they could lift hers when they were ready to cook a new batch. She had noticed the disappearance of her drugs, and had taken to buying in bulk and having a secret, backup drug drawer to make sure she always had whatever she could possibly need.
After carefully reviewing her Human Resources and medical records, Death saw the perfect solution. The file cabinets were dusty and everyone in HR was asleep at their desks (though frankly it was hard to tell the difference), so no one noticed the ball of shadows moving stealthily through the department and then rifling through the personnel files. Because he had once, still in human form, been fired by HR, he took the opportunity of their ‘team meeting’ to draw mustaches on each of their faces with different colored sharpies.
April was pretending to work, while actually surfing the Entertainment Tonight site. She was addicted; she was willing to admit it. But she wouldn’t admit it to her boss. And when she heard his polyester pant legs rubbing together as he waddled in her direction, she hit Alt + Tab so fast that the spreadsheet she flipped to was dizzy. She heard a buzzing coming toward her, as well as the polyester pants and she smelled smoke- probably from all of those polyesters being tormented by the friction of the round dwarf’s forward motion.
Between the buzzing and the wisp of smoke, April froze for a moment, trying to piece together what was going on. Only as she watched the bee sting her hand, leave its stinger and fall dead to her desk, did she realize that the sensory overload was brought on by independent events. Once she determined that, she wondered how a bee got in the office in December. Only then did she remember that she is allergic to bee stings. And she started to panic.
She had heard and read all the warnings about bee stings and anaphylaxis and made it a habit to never go outside in the summer during daytime in order to avoid the possibility of meeting up with a stinging insect that could kill her. As her mind raced, her body acted in slow motion, or more accurately no motion at all. April could see her funeral, she could see how sad her dogs would be without her to bake cookies for them each night and she could see her parents spending her life insurance policy on a combination of cruises and TV infomercials. Her breath was ragged, she was struggling to breathe, it was getting harder and harder to get the air into her lungs, when he boss (known as Dumpy in the coffee room) rounded the corner and stared at her.
“Why are you sitting at your desk sobbing when there’s work to do? That spreadsheet isn’t going to fill itself in with useless numbers, you know.”
April blinked. She realized she couldn’t breathe because she was crying while trying to vocalize her will (she had never written one down), in case anyone was recording her last moments, not because her airway had swelled up. Her hand had hardly swelled from the sting and she removed the stinger, still unable to believe that she had been stung and lived to tell about it. She was definitely going to get a Snickers bar to celebrate her good fortune. Maybe two. And she would definitely make Benadryl part of the daily preventative cocktail- apparently you can never be too careful.
Death sat steaming in the window. Trying to figure out why this woman just could not be killed. The stakes were getting higher and she just would not cooperate. Die already, dammitt! I have things to do- I don’t have all day to spend trying to kill your sorry self. He wished he had the power to speak, maybe if he could explain it to her, she’d let him take her. But alas, in exchange for omnipotence and the power to take life, one had to give up assuming a visible form and the gift of speech.
Death reviewed the options. Are we up to Plan D now? He had almost never had to go to Plan C before, and now he had to think of Plan D? Plan D had better work, as Death, never a good student, wasn’t sure which letter followed D in the alphabet and just might have to give up after this attempt if he couldn’t figure it out.
April sat at her desk, eyes and cheeks still red, but now with chocolate smeared on her chin. She was counting her blessings and swearing to herself that she wouldn’t take anything for granted anymore. She would be a better person. She would stop kicking the homeless guy in front of her house each morning as she headed out. She would stop baiting the neighbor’s cats into her garage so her dogs could play with them. Really she would be a better person with her new lease on life….
To be continued…………………………………..
Copyright Antigone Lett. All rights reserved, etc. etc......
Death couldn’t believe the dumb luck. It must be April’s lucky day. Too bad she would not get to appreciate it for long.
Death sighed. Actually, he swore a blue streak. He could not believe that this idiot was going to ruin his afternoon at the beach! Not only that, but he was already behind on his claims for the day and he may never get a chance to catch up. He may have to work on the weekend and there was nothing that Death’s minions hated more than working on the weekend. He was getting mad and as such, he was taking off the gloves. So much for quick and painless- this time she would know what hit her. She would feel the pain and know that her last moments were ebbing from her soon to be lifeless body and that there was nothing she could do about it.
Upon her hurried arrival at work, April ran for the door, hoping to get to her cube unnoticed. Once there, with the computer on, she could pretend that she had been there for an hour already, and then casually go out to get a coffee refill. No one would realize that it was her first cup and that every cell of her being was screaming for its morning caffeine fix.
Death was way ahead of her. What are the best ways to die at work? Scalded to death by coffee? Too messy. Lightning strike through the window? Seems farfetched but he may be able to swing it. A raging pack of pit bulls? Maybe later, on her lunch break, but this had to be over by then. Electrocuted by a chamomile tea-dipped iPod headphone? Not sure that would do anything but make her ear sticky. Carbon monoxide leak? That would work, if he wanted big numbers, but frankly it seemed wasteful to take so many when you just want the one. Something creative. He was mad and now he wanted to get even with the pain of her death. THINK.
April was sitting quietly at her desk, after getting her coffee and downing some Benadryl for a runny nose. She was a hypochondriac and kept a drawer full of medicine at her desk, just in case. This made her popular with the meth-making cleaning crowd, as they could no longer buy some of the drugs, but they could lift hers when they were ready to cook a new batch. She had noticed the disappearance of her drugs, and had taken to buying in bulk and having a secret, backup drug drawer to make sure she always had whatever she could possibly need.
After carefully reviewing her Human Resources and medical records, Death saw the perfect solution. The file cabinets were dusty and everyone in HR was asleep at their desks (though frankly it was hard to tell the difference), so no one noticed the ball of shadows moving stealthily through the department and then rifling through the personnel files. Because he had once, still in human form, been fired by HR, he took the opportunity of their ‘team meeting’ to draw mustaches on each of their faces with different colored sharpies.
April was pretending to work, while actually surfing the Entertainment Tonight site. She was addicted; she was willing to admit it. But she wouldn’t admit it to her boss. And when she heard his polyester pant legs rubbing together as he waddled in her direction, she hit Alt + Tab so fast that the spreadsheet she flipped to was dizzy. She heard a buzzing coming toward her, as well as the polyester pants and she smelled smoke- probably from all of those polyesters being tormented by the friction of the round dwarf’s forward motion.
Between the buzzing and the wisp of smoke, April froze for a moment, trying to piece together what was going on. Only as she watched the bee sting her hand, leave its stinger and fall dead to her desk, did she realize that the sensory overload was brought on by independent events. Once she determined that, she wondered how a bee got in the office in December. Only then did she remember that she is allergic to bee stings. And she started to panic.
She had heard and read all the warnings about bee stings and anaphylaxis and made it a habit to never go outside in the summer during daytime in order to avoid the possibility of meeting up with a stinging insect that could kill her. As her mind raced, her body acted in slow motion, or more accurately no motion at all. April could see her funeral, she could see how sad her dogs would be without her to bake cookies for them each night and she could see her parents spending her life insurance policy on a combination of cruises and TV infomercials. Her breath was ragged, she was struggling to breathe, it was getting harder and harder to get the air into her lungs, when he boss (known as Dumpy in the coffee room) rounded the corner and stared at her.
“Why are you sitting at your desk sobbing when there’s work to do? That spreadsheet isn’t going to fill itself in with useless numbers, you know.”
April blinked. She realized she couldn’t breathe because she was crying while trying to vocalize her will (she had never written one down), in case anyone was recording her last moments, not because her airway had swelled up. Her hand had hardly swelled from the sting and she removed the stinger, still unable to believe that she had been stung and lived to tell about it. She was definitely going to get a Snickers bar to celebrate her good fortune. Maybe two. And she would definitely make Benadryl part of the daily preventative cocktail- apparently you can never be too careful.
Death sat steaming in the window. Trying to figure out why this woman just could not be killed. The stakes were getting higher and she just would not cooperate. Die already, dammitt! I have things to do- I don’t have all day to spend trying to kill your sorry self. He wished he had the power to speak, maybe if he could explain it to her, she’d let him take her. But alas, in exchange for omnipotence and the power to take life, one had to give up assuming a visible form and the gift of speech.
Death reviewed the options. Are we up to Plan D now? He had almost never had to go to Plan C before, and now he had to think of Plan D? Plan D had better work, as Death, never a good student, wasn’t sure which letter followed D in the alphabet and just might have to give up after this attempt if he couldn’t figure it out.
April sat at her desk, eyes and cheeks still red, but now with chocolate smeared on her chin. She was counting her blessings and swearing to herself that she wouldn’t take anything for granted anymore. She would be a better person. She would stop kicking the homeless guy in front of her house each morning as she headed out. She would stop baiting the neighbor’s cats into her garage so her dogs could play with them. Really she would be a better person with her new lease on life….
To be continued…………………………………..
Copyright Antigone Lett. All rights reserved, etc. etc......
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Stalker
As the morning light filtered into the room, the shadows in the unlit corners appeared darker still. Eyes still unfocused, April glanced in the direction of the darkest corner and thought she saw the shadows move. She blinked, assuring herself that it was too early and her eyes were playing tricks on her. She looked again and this time saw only the silhouette of the plant hanging from the mantel and the cat-less kitty condo behind it.
In the instant in which she was blinking, the shadow gathered itself up into a little ball and rolled under the door into the bathroom. In the bathroom, the shadow made the arrangements- involving the power cord of the hair dryer and leaking pipes.
You see, today was April’s day to die. Her number had come up, and death was here to claim her. But, death had until midnight to claim her and if he couldn’t claim her by then, she would live forever. Poor April would have no idea that it was her last day on earth. She was but a pawn in the interminable battle between life and death and, like the rest of us, she had no idea how capricious either could be at any given moment.
April dragged herself out of bed, let the dogs out and only then realized that while heading toward the back door with eyes semi-open, she had stepped in, and tracked, some of the Ranier-sized pile of dog vomit that was awaiting her on the oak floor. While she had been known to leave such a mess to: worst case dry out some; and best case to be re-ingested by a hungry dog; a mess like that would surely leave a mark on the wood floor. With a disgusted sigh, she got out the paper towels, swearing all the while.
After the cleanup and much cursing at the dog who felt the need to eat the roll of toilet paper, April took the world’s fastest shower. She noticed the puddle on the floor of the bathroom, just in front of the sink, but didn’t have time to ponder it, or clean it up. She also didn’t have time for the blow dryer either, and thus left the room with dripping wet hair, which she never did. She let the dogs in, swore at them some more as she handed over their treats and ran out the door.
Death couldn’t believe it. All she had to do was turn on the hairdryer and she was his……how could the stupid dogs have foiled his plan. He always went for the easiest way out- it was easiest for the claimee, and also for him. If he claimed her early, he could crank through his list and then, if done before 2PM, he would have had the rest of the afternoon to spend at the beach. He loved the beach and always tried to get his work done early in order to spend a few hours lulled into the blissful nothingness that enveloped him there. That and the smell of salt water, which took him back to happier days and times.
April ran out of the house in a hurry, breakfast would have to be the three saltines that she found shoved down deep in the seat of the passenger seat. Not having children, only dogs, she didn’t want to think about how they got there. The important thing is that they were there and they didn’t break any teeth on the way down.
Death, meanwhile, had to resort to plan B. A car accident- they happen every day, especially in this town. He flew out over the highway, looking for the idea location. There it was, a curve in the road, at the peak of a hill, with traffic backing up for the exit on the blind down-side of the hill. He hated car accidents. They were loud and scary and lot of people were involved in one way or another. Granted he got a bonus for every extra soul that he brought in, but he hated to do it that way. He much preferred either the singular fluke accident that resulted in just the one death, or a large-scale natural disaster to rack up his numbers that couldn’t be foreseen by the victims. He had already spent too much time on April, so car accident it was and he had it all figured out.
April left the house, snarfed down the saltines in the first block and only then realized that she did not have her card-key for the office. Without it, she couldn’t get in the building, couldn’t fire up her computer and most importantly, couldn’t get into the cafeteria for lunch. Crap! She drove around the block and ran back into the house to get it. She lost maybe a minute to her forgetfulness, then was back on the road, speeding to make up for yet more lost time.
Death had it all figured out, a tractor-trailer—the driver distracted as he called a radio station repeatedly on his cell in order to win Huey Lewis concert tickets—would crest the hill on the wet road and see the backlog ahead and slam on the brakes. He would then jackknife, cross all there lanes of traffic, taking out only April as the rig came to rest against April’s squashed car and the median. The concrete median was only fifty feet long of on each side of the highway at the pivotal point, so it had to end there. Outside that fifty foot range and the rig would wind up in the median or in the opposing traffic.
He would begin by going left and sheering along the median until the trailer of the rig joined in the fun, passing the cab, and then, together, they would swerve right across all traffic lanes, ending with a squished April and her 1985 Ford Escort-with no side impact air bags.
Death was waiting for the accident. It was all figured out down to the last second. He had the tractor-trailer in his radar and there was April. But she was in the wrong spot. She was too far behind. Dammit!
He watched her watching the jackknife unfold. Or more accurately watching the jackknife fold. She was in the right hand lane, she was thirty feet behind where he needed her to be. She saw or heard the truck’s distress, sensed that it was in trouble and slowed accordingly. The truck came to rest just a few feet in front of her. She stopped without incident and ran to the cab of the truck, concerned that the driver was hurt. She saw no motion from the truck excepting the lonely wipers continuing their intermittent sweeping of the windshield, unknowing and uncaring that the truck’s forward motion had ended.
As April climbed the steps to the cab, heart racing, unsure of what she would find when she got there, the driver gave her a thumbs-up. She presumed that it meant that he was okay, and never dreamt that he had just scored the Huey Lewis tickets. Death snorted disgustedly, now wishing that he had taken the truck driver out after all. He deserved it. April climbed back in her car and continued on her journey to work, even later than she was five minutes ago but with her heart beating a million miles an hour and the adrenaline flowing.
Death couldn’t believe the dumb luck. It must be April’s lucky day. Too bad she would never know it.
To be continued on Thursday 11/15/07…………………..
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
In the instant in which she was blinking, the shadow gathered itself up into a little ball and rolled under the door into the bathroom. In the bathroom, the shadow made the arrangements- involving the power cord of the hair dryer and leaking pipes.
You see, today was April’s day to die. Her number had come up, and death was here to claim her. But, death had until midnight to claim her and if he couldn’t claim her by then, she would live forever. Poor April would have no idea that it was her last day on earth. She was but a pawn in the interminable battle between life and death and, like the rest of us, she had no idea how capricious either could be at any given moment.
April dragged herself out of bed, let the dogs out and only then realized that while heading toward the back door with eyes semi-open, she had stepped in, and tracked, some of the Ranier-sized pile of dog vomit that was awaiting her on the oak floor. While she had been known to leave such a mess to: worst case dry out some; and best case to be re-ingested by a hungry dog; a mess like that would surely leave a mark on the wood floor. With a disgusted sigh, she got out the paper towels, swearing all the while.
After the cleanup and much cursing at the dog who felt the need to eat the roll of toilet paper, April took the world’s fastest shower. She noticed the puddle on the floor of the bathroom, just in front of the sink, but didn’t have time to ponder it, or clean it up. She also didn’t have time for the blow dryer either, and thus left the room with dripping wet hair, which she never did. She let the dogs in, swore at them some more as she handed over their treats and ran out the door.
Death couldn’t believe it. All she had to do was turn on the hairdryer and she was his……how could the stupid dogs have foiled his plan. He always went for the easiest way out- it was easiest for the claimee, and also for him. If he claimed her early, he could crank through his list and then, if done before 2PM, he would have had the rest of the afternoon to spend at the beach. He loved the beach and always tried to get his work done early in order to spend a few hours lulled into the blissful nothingness that enveloped him there. That and the smell of salt water, which took him back to happier days and times.
April ran out of the house in a hurry, breakfast would have to be the three saltines that she found shoved down deep in the seat of the passenger seat. Not having children, only dogs, she didn’t want to think about how they got there. The important thing is that they were there and they didn’t break any teeth on the way down.
Death, meanwhile, had to resort to plan B. A car accident- they happen every day, especially in this town. He flew out over the highway, looking for the idea location. There it was, a curve in the road, at the peak of a hill, with traffic backing up for the exit on the blind down-side of the hill. He hated car accidents. They were loud and scary and lot of people were involved in one way or another. Granted he got a bonus for every extra soul that he brought in, but he hated to do it that way. He much preferred either the singular fluke accident that resulted in just the one death, or a large-scale natural disaster to rack up his numbers that couldn’t be foreseen by the victims. He had already spent too much time on April, so car accident it was and he had it all figured out.
April left the house, snarfed down the saltines in the first block and only then realized that she did not have her card-key for the office. Without it, she couldn’t get in the building, couldn’t fire up her computer and most importantly, couldn’t get into the cafeteria for lunch. Crap! She drove around the block and ran back into the house to get it. She lost maybe a minute to her forgetfulness, then was back on the road, speeding to make up for yet more lost time.
Death had it all figured out, a tractor-trailer—the driver distracted as he called a radio station repeatedly on his cell in order to win Huey Lewis concert tickets—would crest the hill on the wet road and see the backlog ahead and slam on the brakes. He would then jackknife, cross all there lanes of traffic, taking out only April as the rig came to rest against April’s squashed car and the median. The concrete median was only fifty feet long of on each side of the highway at the pivotal point, so it had to end there. Outside that fifty foot range and the rig would wind up in the median or in the opposing traffic.
He would begin by going left and sheering along the median until the trailer of the rig joined in the fun, passing the cab, and then, together, they would swerve right across all traffic lanes, ending with a squished April and her 1985 Ford Escort-with no side impact air bags.
Death was waiting for the accident. It was all figured out down to the last second. He had the tractor-trailer in his radar and there was April. But she was in the wrong spot. She was too far behind. Dammit!
He watched her watching the jackknife unfold. Or more accurately watching the jackknife fold. She was in the right hand lane, she was thirty feet behind where he needed her to be. She saw or heard the truck’s distress, sensed that it was in trouble and slowed accordingly. The truck came to rest just a few feet in front of her. She stopped without incident and ran to the cab of the truck, concerned that the driver was hurt. She saw no motion from the truck excepting the lonely wipers continuing their intermittent sweeping of the windshield, unknowing and uncaring that the truck’s forward motion had ended.
As April climbed the steps to the cab, heart racing, unsure of what she would find when she got there, the driver gave her a thumbs-up. She presumed that it meant that he was okay, and never dreamt that he had just scored the Huey Lewis tickets. Death snorted disgustedly, now wishing that he had taken the truck driver out after all. He deserved it. April climbed back in her car and continued on her journey to work, even later than she was five minutes ago but with her heart beating a million miles an hour and the adrenaline flowing.
Death couldn’t believe the dumb luck. It must be April’s lucky day. Too bad she would never know it.
To be continued on Thursday 11/15/07…………………..
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The Mission
It was time. The clock was ticking. Fifteen minutes, starting NOW. It was now or never. I steeled myself for what was to come. Even though I had done it a million times before and this had become a routine patrol, I still ran through the checklist every time. Success is in the training. And luck. And being prepared—like a boy scout. Hell, whatever works, right?. As long as the mission is successfully accomplished, does it really matter how it gets accomplished?
Despite doing this exact same drill for months, I still run through the checklist each and every time. For precision missions like this, it is of the utmost importance. It is automatic now, which was good. A mistake now would be life changing at the very least. In addition, it would destroy the last several months of careful planning, reducing all of my efforts to wasted time. All of that intelligence lost.
Time is of the essence, so they say. I duck into the broom closet to don my camouflage gear. I used to use the bathroom to change, like normal people, but due to recent headlines, the popularity of the stalls has skyrocketed and you have to reserve in advance. Plus, you never know when a Republican Senator—or just a poseur Republican Senator—will decide to make some headlines of his own. Who needs that? The broom closet is less crowded and less complicated. No reservations are required. And, I can store my stuff there in a box marked “cleaning supplies”. No one will ever look in that box. They haven’t yet.
I get geared up. The face paint is a little hard without a mirror, but I make do with the stainless steel mop bucket. Kneeling on the floor to apply the paint is tough on the knees—they are not as young as they used to be. Three minutes down. I am ready to go, only twelve minutes left.
Peering out of the closet, I see no one- GO, GO, GO. Stealth and invisibility are the key to success. And training. I slink down the hall, down the stairs and out the side door. I wedge the door open. I edge around the building, blending in all the way. Step by step.
Eleven minutes left. I come to the parking lot. This is where the camouflage comes in. I commando-crawl to the first row of cars. Once there, I weave in between the cars, invisible to human eyes on the third floor. I hit the dirt in between the rows and crawl to the next row. I dodge and feint through the parking lot, undetected. I get to my car, climb in and breathe a deep sigh of relief. I drive off.
Ten minutes left. I can do this. I steady my nerves, take deep breaths. Drive carefully. The parking lot speed limit is ten miles an hour. The last thing I want to do is attract attention. Slowly I cruise out of the lot to my clandestine destination. Once I arrive there, I attract some attention, due to the camo, but I shake it off. I have a mission to accomplish and I must accomplish it. This is what it is all about.
Five minutes left. This is cutting it closer than I am comfortable with. Once the goal is achieved, and I am back safe inside, my heart will resume a normal heartbeat. Even thought it’s routine, I still get worked up every time. The adrenaline flows. I drive back, obeying the traffic laws. Back to the parking lot, I park in the same place, so as not to attract undue attention.
Three minutes left. I carefully carry the plunder, balanced on my head, as I crawl into the next row of cars on my way back to the building. More dodging and feinting back to the building. More blending along the side of the building, still balancing the stuff on my head. In through the door that I left ajar. Back up the stairs to the broom closet.
One minute left, I hastily change back into my work clothes, stashing the camo gear in the box.
Zero minutes left. I emerge, victorious and undetected, from the closet, heart still pounding. I forgot to remove the face paint. But I have Starbucks double mochachinos for the gang.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Despite doing this exact same drill for months, I still run through the checklist each and every time. For precision missions like this, it is of the utmost importance. It is automatic now, which was good. A mistake now would be life changing at the very least. In addition, it would destroy the last several months of careful planning, reducing all of my efforts to wasted time. All of that intelligence lost.
Time is of the essence, so they say. I duck into the broom closet to don my camouflage gear. I used to use the bathroom to change, like normal people, but due to recent headlines, the popularity of the stalls has skyrocketed and you have to reserve in advance. Plus, you never know when a Republican Senator—or just a poseur Republican Senator—will decide to make some headlines of his own. Who needs that? The broom closet is less crowded and less complicated. No reservations are required. And, I can store my stuff there in a box marked “cleaning supplies”. No one will ever look in that box. They haven’t yet.
I get geared up. The face paint is a little hard without a mirror, but I make do with the stainless steel mop bucket. Kneeling on the floor to apply the paint is tough on the knees—they are not as young as they used to be. Three minutes down. I am ready to go, only twelve minutes left.
Peering out of the closet, I see no one- GO, GO, GO. Stealth and invisibility are the key to success. And training. I slink down the hall, down the stairs and out the side door. I wedge the door open. I edge around the building, blending in all the way. Step by step.
Eleven minutes left. I come to the parking lot. This is where the camouflage comes in. I commando-crawl to the first row of cars. Once there, I weave in between the cars, invisible to human eyes on the third floor. I hit the dirt in between the rows and crawl to the next row. I dodge and feint through the parking lot, undetected. I get to my car, climb in and breathe a deep sigh of relief. I drive off.
Ten minutes left. I can do this. I steady my nerves, take deep breaths. Drive carefully. The parking lot speed limit is ten miles an hour. The last thing I want to do is attract attention. Slowly I cruise out of the lot to my clandestine destination. Once I arrive there, I attract some attention, due to the camo, but I shake it off. I have a mission to accomplish and I must accomplish it. This is what it is all about.
Five minutes left. This is cutting it closer than I am comfortable with. Once the goal is achieved, and I am back safe inside, my heart will resume a normal heartbeat. Even thought it’s routine, I still get worked up every time. The adrenaline flows. I drive back, obeying the traffic laws. Back to the parking lot, I park in the same place, so as not to attract undue attention.
Three minutes left. I carefully carry the plunder, balanced on my head, as I crawl into the next row of cars on my way back to the building. More dodging and feinting back to the building. More blending along the side of the building, still balancing the stuff on my head. In through the door that I left ajar. Back up the stairs to the broom closet.
One minute left, I hastily change back into my work clothes, stashing the camo gear in the box.
Zero minutes left. I emerge, victorious and undetected, from the closet, heart still pounding. I forgot to remove the face paint. But I have Starbucks double mochachinos for the gang.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
At the Farm
Trixie and I had no sooner started exploring the filthiest parts of the farm immediately after our arrival when Grandma called us.
“Come on, we’re going to the store. Now. And leave that filthy dog here; it can’t ride in my car.” She said.
Thus began that summer’s momentous events and Grandma’s begrudging acceptance of Trixie and me in her life. And her house. I suppose anything new and different at nine years old qualifies as momentous. Even having a new neighbor is momentous, whether it is someone my age—a new playmate—or, someone older, but still in need of a thorough vetting for the neighborhood grapevine. Being abandoned here at the farm with my crazy grandparents and my sane dog definitely qualified as momentous.
According to Grandma, though the farm was self sufficient, there were still some things that we had to get in the village. Things like toilet paper, chocolate, flour, salt and sugar. And gossip. We were making a chocolate run, so Grandma could make her world famous chocolate cake to celebrate my arrival. Or incarceration, as I saw it. But, I do like the cake, so it was worth tying Trixie to the garage for a look around our new home. While we were there, Grandma could get the village scoop from Gladys.
We headed to IGA, which doubles as the coffee counter and information center of the town. Grandma methodically crossed things off her list, forgetting all about me as soon as she was in her element. She looked at the display nearest the register and began laughing until tears coursed down her face.
Wiping her eyes, she asked Gladys “Where in the name of Jezebel did you get the idea to sell rocks? And how much of Howie’s money did you waste on boxes of rocks with hair on them?”
Gladys sniffed ”I ordered 10 boxes of those Pet Rocks and you mark my words, they’ll be gone in two weeks.”
“I don’t see what fool would buy a rock—even if it does have hair on it—when there’s a quarry just half a mile away where you can get them for free.” Said Grandma. Then she remembered the tourists. “I am sorry I offended you Gladys, I sold you short. But instead of $1.50, I think you should price them at $3.00 and make a sign that says that they are hand-made in the village by local needy children and you can sell a boatload more than 10 boxes in the next twelve weeks. You could make enough to retire on.”
Gladys pondered this and said, “I think you may be right Mrs. Browne. Hey you- shortstuff- are you here for the summer? Do you need a job? I’ll pay you a percentage. Or a flat fee per rock-person. What do you think?”
I was browsing through the musky lures, deciding which one I’d hit on if I had a brain the size of a balled up staple and paying no attention to the adults, when grandma whacked me with her cane and told me to mind my manners. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that phrase, I would mind my manners a lot less.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, were you talking to me?” I said.
“Yes, shortstuff, I was. I was asking if you would like a job for the summer, as your grandma tells me you’re here until school starts and she’d welcome you having something to do with yourself aside from annoying her and the animals up at the farm. You’re Margaret’s kid, aren’t you? What’s your name anyway?” Gladys asked.
“My name is Hermia, after a Shakespeare play, but everyone calls me Hermy. And I guess I would like a job for the summer.” I answered, having no idea what I was getting into in my first hours in town.
“Well, Hermy, how ‘bout you come back this afternoon and we’ll come up with a plan for your summer job. I’ll provide the glue and the hair.” Said Gladys.
We left the store, me still more than baffled about what was going on. She explained that I would be making pet rocks for Gladys to sell to the tourists—who will buy absolutely anything—while they were on vacation at the Lake in the summer. Still unsure of what this might entail, I decided not to worry about it until I had to. On the way to the car, I noticed an old woman with a hawk-like face scowling out of the library window at us. I asked Grandma who that was and why she was staring at us and she told me to mind my business. I thought I was.
Once we got back to the farm, I freed Trixie from her confinement, which was a joke, as the hundred pound Newfoundland mix could have pulled free of the door handle anytime she wanted to. Grandma was starting on dinner and the cake so we picked up our exploring where we left off, until she called us. She reminded me that I said I would go back to meet with Gladys. She said that Uncle Ned’s old bike was in the milkhouse and to help myself.
I went to the milkhouse and found a rusty bike with a pink banana seat and a clown’s horn attached. It wasn’t pretty, but it looked like it might work. It even gave the impression of having air in the tires. I got on and started pedaling, with Trixie running ahead of me. It had not occurred to me to check the brakes before getting on the bike and I was rudely surprised near the bottom of the big hill when I could not slow down and achieved what I assumed to be warp speed before losing contact with the ground.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
“Come on, we’re going to the store. Now. And leave that filthy dog here; it can’t ride in my car.” She said.
Thus began that summer’s momentous events and Grandma’s begrudging acceptance of Trixie and me in her life. And her house. I suppose anything new and different at nine years old qualifies as momentous. Even having a new neighbor is momentous, whether it is someone my age—a new playmate—or, someone older, but still in need of a thorough vetting for the neighborhood grapevine. Being abandoned here at the farm with my crazy grandparents and my sane dog definitely qualified as momentous.
According to Grandma, though the farm was self sufficient, there were still some things that we had to get in the village. Things like toilet paper, chocolate, flour, salt and sugar. And gossip. We were making a chocolate run, so Grandma could make her world famous chocolate cake to celebrate my arrival. Or incarceration, as I saw it. But, I do like the cake, so it was worth tying Trixie to the garage for a look around our new home. While we were there, Grandma could get the village scoop from Gladys.
We headed to IGA, which doubles as the coffee counter and information center of the town. Grandma methodically crossed things off her list, forgetting all about me as soon as she was in her element. She looked at the display nearest the register and began laughing until tears coursed down her face.
Wiping her eyes, she asked Gladys “Where in the name of Jezebel did you get the idea to sell rocks? And how much of Howie’s money did you waste on boxes of rocks with hair on them?”
Gladys sniffed ”I ordered 10 boxes of those Pet Rocks and you mark my words, they’ll be gone in two weeks.”
“I don’t see what fool would buy a rock—even if it does have hair on it—when there’s a quarry just half a mile away where you can get them for free.” Said Grandma. Then she remembered the tourists. “I am sorry I offended you Gladys, I sold you short. But instead of $1.50, I think you should price them at $3.00 and make a sign that says that they are hand-made in the village by local needy children and you can sell a boatload more than 10 boxes in the next twelve weeks. You could make enough to retire on.”
Gladys pondered this and said, “I think you may be right Mrs. Browne. Hey you- shortstuff- are you here for the summer? Do you need a job? I’ll pay you a percentage. Or a flat fee per rock-person. What do you think?”
I was browsing through the musky lures, deciding which one I’d hit on if I had a brain the size of a balled up staple and paying no attention to the adults, when grandma whacked me with her cane and told me to mind my manners. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that phrase, I would mind my manners a lot less.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, were you talking to me?” I said.
“Yes, shortstuff, I was. I was asking if you would like a job for the summer, as your grandma tells me you’re here until school starts and she’d welcome you having something to do with yourself aside from annoying her and the animals up at the farm. You’re Margaret’s kid, aren’t you? What’s your name anyway?” Gladys asked.
“My name is Hermia, after a Shakespeare play, but everyone calls me Hermy. And I guess I would like a job for the summer.” I answered, having no idea what I was getting into in my first hours in town.
“Well, Hermy, how ‘bout you come back this afternoon and we’ll come up with a plan for your summer job. I’ll provide the glue and the hair.” Said Gladys.
We left the store, me still more than baffled about what was going on. She explained that I would be making pet rocks for Gladys to sell to the tourists—who will buy absolutely anything—while they were on vacation at the Lake in the summer. Still unsure of what this might entail, I decided not to worry about it until I had to. On the way to the car, I noticed an old woman with a hawk-like face scowling out of the library window at us. I asked Grandma who that was and why she was staring at us and she told me to mind my business. I thought I was.
Once we got back to the farm, I freed Trixie from her confinement, which was a joke, as the hundred pound Newfoundland mix could have pulled free of the door handle anytime she wanted to. Grandma was starting on dinner and the cake so we picked up our exploring where we left off, until she called us. She reminded me that I said I would go back to meet with Gladys. She said that Uncle Ned’s old bike was in the milkhouse and to help myself.
I went to the milkhouse and found a rusty bike with a pink banana seat and a clown’s horn attached. It wasn’t pretty, but it looked like it might work. It even gave the impression of having air in the tires. I got on and started pedaling, with Trixie running ahead of me. It had not occurred to me to check the brakes before getting on the bike and I was rudely surprised near the bottom of the big hill when I could not slow down and achieved what I assumed to be warp speed before losing contact with the ground.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Friday, September 14, 2007
The Big Moment Was Finally Here
The big moment was finally here. The ultimate test of all of my training, not to mention my willpower. I have trained for this race for six months. Every day, grinding it out, forcing myself to hit the trail. Or the treadmill, depending on what was on TV that night. No one would expect me to miss Grey’s Anatomy for some stupid run up hills around my neighborhood.
It seemed like such a good idea when I signed up. Of course, that was in the dead of winter, which I usually spend as a full time resident of couch-potato-land. Therefore, the idea that in a few months I would be forced to run 26.2 miles should be awesome motivation for getting lots of exercise and more than a little hard-core training. You would think, anyway. I know I did.
We all envision a more perfect future then we actually achieve. I am sure about that now. Well, at least I do. Cause I pictured me, fifty pounds lighter, super fit, cranking through this race like a dog after a squirrel. Not an old dog or a three-legged squirrel, but a silly energetic pup and a fully functional squirrel that lived to taunt the dog. That is what I really thought it would be like. Not so much, at least not so far. There is still time.
The start line was pretty exciting, all those people, mostly hopping up and down because it’s damn cold out at 7 AM and they’re dressed for the state they’ll be in twenty minutes after the gun goes off and the body starts to keep itself warm. Standing around in the morning is not that fun, but there was a lot of excitement in the air. It was palpable. There was even a host of giant bunnies there. They were people in bunny costumes and they all had different times posted on their over-sized ears. These were the pace bunnies. Apparently a bunch of people who had no larger goal in life than to run 26.2 miles at the exact speed that they claim, wearing a bunny costume. Lord, save me from the world’s overachievers, especially the ones with ginormous furry feet.
There must have been five thousand people here to run this race. Some of them, actually most of them, looked like they knew what they were doing and that they were about to kick some butt. I looked like I slept through 6 months of training and showed up to get my t-shirt. After all, I had paid $75 for that t-shirt. I was not leaving without it- that is true.
However, I was here to run this race. To challenge myself, mentally and physically for the first time. I could do this. I had trained and I had read everything I could find about running a marathon on-line while watching TV and carbing up- do you start that five months in advance? I wanted to be sure, so I did. King size Snickers count as carbs, right? Anyway…. I was as prepared as I would ever be. I had done what the books said, gotten in line for the bathroom upon arrival. Then, once I cleared the lovely porta-potty, I got right back in line, as that is what they say you should do. I have been hydrating for a few weeks now too, so you can imagine the results.
After a few trips through the “john”, I moseyed over to the other runners. They were stretching and prancing, preening even. They were all showing off as if they expected a pre-race talent scout to swoop down out of nowhere and offer them a contract on a new running reality show. Maybe called “Road to Nowhere”, or maybe “Roads Scholar”. That would be a good title. I would watch that. Maybe there were running scouts around; I guess you never know who is watching you.
I was trying not to get nervous. Trying to ignore the pressure building in my stomach. I have always been prone to the super-athlete’s curse of throwing up before a big event and while I had hoped that this would be different, I was not so sure. Remembering that running is 90% mental and 10% mental, I tried not to think of it, as though shutting out the symptoms would make the urge to purge go away. Don’t think about it….think of my happy place- a beach in Maui.
That’s better, maybe it will pass. And then it passed all right, passed right through my mouth and maybe even my nose and onto the shoes of all of the runners around me. And I’m pretty sure that my semi-digested breakfast soiled at least half of the pace bunnies’ furry feet, as I had eaten- still carbing up- a dozen scrambled eggs, ¾ of a pound of bacon (I could have eaten it all, but that seemed piggish), several slices of toast and half a gallon of OJ (hydrating). Those bunnies did not look at all amused and everyone moved away from me at warp speed. I took it personally. Like I had any control over that specific bodily function.
Anyway, it was time for the race to start. We all stood ready to go at the crack of the gun. Well, guns aren’t politically correct at races anymore, so they literally cracked a whip. Except the whip-cracker did not seem to have done it before and thus made several lame attempts before the runners just ran over him and his whip en masse. Maybe, if he recovers from 5,000 people running over him, he will think about perfecting his skills before the next marathon.
We were off. How exciting. I turned my iPod up- I like to hear my Barry Manilow loud when I am running- it helps me keep the tempo. So Barry was singing- it is possible that I was also, at least until I had to choose between breathing and singing. Then I chose breathing. The first several minutes I settled into a rhythm and my legs just pumped along. It was good. Many people were passing me, but I had expected that. I had not expected to be at the front of the pack, but rather the back and that’s okay. I am comfortable with my own pace.
Hours passed. Time slowed. It stood still. My mouth was dry, not to mention foul-tasting. Every step was a victory, as my muscles were starting to scream. I expected resistance eventually from my leg muscles, but was surprised that my feet hurt as much as they did and even more surprised when my arm muscles joined the chorus. My stomach was growling, as it has no source of energy whatsoever and it was not happy.
Remembering that it is all in my head helped. I ignored the torturous screaming of my body and instead focused on the tortuous screaming of Barry. I just kept plugging along- moving forward- one foot in front of the other. After what must have been several hours, I spied something in the distance. At last. I knew I could do this. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and soon I will be at the finish line. I approached, ready for the celebration. I wondered where the tents and all of the runners were. I hadn’t seen anyone for a while, but surely they haven’t all gone home already?
Just a hundred more feet. I cannot read the sign yet, but I know what it says. Just keep laying one exhausted foot in front of the other. Never mind the legs that feel like rubber- that feel like they’re part of someone else’s body, as they’re not something that I have control over any longer. They‘re still moving but I have not felt them for the last 2 hours.
I am close enough to read the sign. Mile 1.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
It seemed like such a good idea when I signed up. Of course, that was in the dead of winter, which I usually spend as a full time resident of couch-potato-land. Therefore, the idea that in a few months I would be forced to run 26.2 miles should be awesome motivation for getting lots of exercise and more than a little hard-core training. You would think, anyway. I know I did.
We all envision a more perfect future then we actually achieve. I am sure about that now. Well, at least I do. Cause I pictured me, fifty pounds lighter, super fit, cranking through this race like a dog after a squirrel. Not an old dog or a three-legged squirrel, but a silly energetic pup and a fully functional squirrel that lived to taunt the dog. That is what I really thought it would be like. Not so much, at least not so far. There is still time.
The start line was pretty exciting, all those people, mostly hopping up and down because it’s damn cold out at 7 AM and they’re dressed for the state they’ll be in twenty minutes after the gun goes off and the body starts to keep itself warm. Standing around in the morning is not that fun, but there was a lot of excitement in the air. It was palpable. There was even a host of giant bunnies there. They were people in bunny costumes and they all had different times posted on their over-sized ears. These were the pace bunnies. Apparently a bunch of people who had no larger goal in life than to run 26.2 miles at the exact speed that they claim, wearing a bunny costume. Lord, save me from the world’s overachievers, especially the ones with ginormous furry feet.
There must have been five thousand people here to run this race. Some of them, actually most of them, looked like they knew what they were doing and that they were about to kick some butt. I looked like I slept through 6 months of training and showed up to get my t-shirt. After all, I had paid $75 for that t-shirt. I was not leaving without it- that is true.
However, I was here to run this race. To challenge myself, mentally and physically for the first time. I could do this. I had trained and I had read everything I could find about running a marathon on-line while watching TV and carbing up- do you start that five months in advance? I wanted to be sure, so I did. King size Snickers count as carbs, right? Anyway…. I was as prepared as I would ever be. I had done what the books said, gotten in line for the bathroom upon arrival. Then, once I cleared the lovely porta-potty, I got right back in line, as that is what they say you should do. I have been hydrating for a few weeks now too, so you can imagine the results.
After a few trips through the “john”, I moseyed over to the other runners. They were stretching and prancing, preening even. They were all showing off as if they expected a pre-race talent scout to swoop down out of nowhere and offer them a contract on a new running reality show. Maybe called “Road to Nowhere”, or maybe “Roads Scholar”. That would be a good title. I would watch that. Maybe there were running scouts around; I guess you never know who is watching you.
I was trying not to get nervous. Trying to ignore the pressure building in my stomach. I have always been prone to the super-athlete’s curse of throwing up before a big event and while I had hoped that this would be different, I was not so sure. Remembering that running is 90% mental and 10% mental, I tried not to think of it, as though shutting out the symptoms would make the urge to purge go away. Don’t think about it….think of my happy place- a beach in Maui.
That’s better, maybe it will pass. And then it passed all right, passed right through my mouth and maybe even my nose and onto the shoes of all of the runners around me. And I’m pretty sure that my semi-digested breakfast soiled at least half of the pace bunnies’ furry feet, as I had eaten- still carbing up- a dozen scrambled eggs, ¾ of a pound of bacon (I could have eaten it all, but that seemed piggish), several slices of toast and half a gallon of OJ (hydrating). Those bunnies did not look at all amused and everyone moved away from me at warp speed. I took it personally. Like I had any control over that specific bodily function.
Anyway, it was time for the race to start. We all stood ready to go at the crack of the gun. Well, guns aren’t politically correct at races anymore, so they literally cracked a whip. Except the whip-cracker did not seem to have done it before and thus made several lame attempts before the runners just ran over him and his whip en masse. Maybe, if he recovers from 5,000 people running over him, he will think about perfecting his skills before the next marathon.
We were off. How exciting. I turned my iPod up- I like to hear my Barry Manilow loud when I am running- it helps me keep the tempo. So Barry was singing- it is possible that I was also, at least until I had to choose between breathing and singing. Then I chose breathing. The first several minutes I settled into a rhythm and my legs just pumped along. It was good. Many people were passing me, but I had expected that. I had not expected to be at the front of the pack, but rather the back and that’s okay. I am comfortable with my own pace.
Hours passed. Time slowed. It stood still. My mouth was dry, not to mention foul-tasting. Every step was a victory, as my muscles were starting to scream. I expected resistance eventually from my leg muscles, but was surprised that my feet hurt as much as they did and even more surprised when my arm muscles joined the chorus. My stomach was growling, as it has no source of energy whatsoever and it was not happy.
Remembering that it is all in my head helped. I ignored the torturous screaming of my body and instead focused on the tortuous screaming of Barry. I just kept plugging along- moving forward- one foot in front of the other. After what must have been several hours, I spied something in the distance. At last. I knew I could do this. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and soon I will be at the finish line. I approached, ready for the celebration. I wondered where the tents and all of the runners were. I hadn’t seen anyone for a while, but surely they haven’t all gone home already?
Just a hundred more feet. I cannot read the sign yet, but I know what it says. Just keep laying one exhausted foot in front of the other. Never mind the legs that feel like rubber- that feel like they’re part of someone else’s body, as they’re not something that I have control over any longer. They‘re still moving but I have not felt them for the last 2 hours.
I am close enough to read the sign. Mile 1.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Ironman? Tinman? Strawman
Some people wouldn’t think that a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride—up and down 6,000-foot mountains—and a full marathon would be a great personal challenge. Maybe they’re the crazy ones. Maybe not.
In order to thoroughly test my endurance, I travel 3,000 miles and three time zones in a little metal cylinder at 35,000 feet, subject to the whims of about a million people wearing uniforms of some type and tiny earphones. Earphones that are probably playing SnoopyDoggieDoo or whatever, but which they pretend are life support systems through which the airport god is whispering about what planes are currently allowed to board and which planes can take off. And which planes should be boarded while the flight crew pretends they will take off, but really will not.
Oh yeah, and I bring the family along because if everyone is not part of this feat, then it is no fun at all. Not to mention it’s not a significant accomplishment. It really is more of a weeklong logistical endurance test. I don’t know if you’ve traveled lately, but that alone is a test to one’s endurance, not to mention willpower in not whacking at least a dozen airline employees who have yet more bad news to share regarding getting to one’s destination. Or not getting there, as is more often the case.
Before it is time to squeeze the family into cramped seats on planes that are not actually going anywhere, I have to ship my bike 3,000 miles. I watch the UPS dude like a hawk to make sure that the bike actually makes it on the truck. For one thing, the bike is worth $8,000USD. And I’m thinking that the UPS dude will have it sold on eBay and out the door at the end of the day, just not to Penticton for the race. With a new shipping label (but me still paying for the shipping). As they load it, I run over to make sure that it is still addressed to the real venue and not the highest bidder. That was a full day’s vigilance. Training, if you will.
If my bike went AWOL, my backup is about two feet tall and has training wheels, streamers on the handlebars and noisemakers in the spokes. I am certain that a) I would not win and b) the other riders would mock me, at least until they thundered out of hearing distance. Therefore, the bike is a crucial element of these festivities.
Okay, the bike was on its way. Now to worry about the rest of the equipment—the bathing cap. I asked my son to get me a bathing cap out of the bathing cap drawer and throw it in my bag. I did not look to see what he chose, as I thought we had only normal, twentieth- century bathing caps. I could not have been more wrong. I spent seventeen-plus hours on race day wearing a bathing cap that most closely resembles a hideous multi-colored flower bouquet that couldn’t possibly have been attractive—nor comfortable—even back when it was made at the turn of the eighteenth century.
Upon arrival in Vancouver, after setting up our own tent city in two different airports as we await news of the next cancellation, the family passes out for some much-needed rest in the rental car. Life is good. And relaxing. Until I am awakened by blaring horns. It seems that someone, namely me, is snoozing while driving on the wrong side of the road (it IS part of the commonwealth- anyone could make that mistake). Crap. Well, everyone is wide-awake now. Double Crap.
Eventually, after a drive nearly as long as some legendary seventh day, we arrive at our destination, Ironman, 2007, Penticton, BC (that is in Canada). This is where it all happens. This is where the ironmen—and women—will be crowned. Some sooner than others. Much, much sooner. Time to relax a bit, explore the town, find a grocery store. Have some lunch and absorb the vibe of the race.
In the store, I am completely baffled by the labels. Everything is in French. How am I supposed to find the Kraft Dinner if I can’t read the box? Overhearing me swearing aloud, some helpful Canadian lady (is there any other kind?) shows me the dual language labels and thus the English side. Apparently some Ironman-hating (American hating?) Francophile employee has turned all products in the store to the French labels just to mess with the Americans. You do not need to speak or read a second language if you are an American. We use volume. We will pump it up until we cannot be ignored. Turns out American is THE International Language after all.
Shopping was done, naps taken, swings pushed and exploring was underway. Playing at the beach was a highlight for everyone. Something tells me that no one else in the family will fully appreciate the sixty-seven degree water for the couple of hours it will take me for a two-plus mile swim. Sure, it looks like fun, but it really is not. Really. Not. Fun.
Time for the mandatory athletes' meeting—the make up one. The one for those who missed the mandatory, mandatory meeting. At least I wasn’t alone. First thing of interest that I learned: be sure to show up at the correct lake. Apparently, there are two lakes, with Penticton between them. The Athletic Supporter (who wore his title proudly, BTW) said if you show up at the lake and you are the only one there, it is either the wrong lake or the wrong day. Mental note- follow the other 2,399 athletes and I couldn’t go wrong.
Second thing of interest that I learned: ALL THREE EVENTS ARE HELD ON THE SAME DAY, BACK TO BACK. No rest breaks, much less rest days, between them. I really have to start reading the fine print. We are here for a week, because someone told me that the events took place throughout the week. CRAP. This is so going to hurt. Maybe I can get started now?
What can I do? If I die en route, then the problem is solved. If I die on the bike ride, maybe a bear will drag me into the woods and I will become part of the ecosystem. I would be okay with that. If I do not die on the bike ride, then I will keep chugging along and hoping. Odds are good that I will die at some point out there and then the pain will end. Sooner would be so much better than later.
The morning dawns. It’s cool. We are in the BC interior in August, usually it sizzles here—a dry heat. However, we are lucky. It is going to be cool, cloudy. Perfect weather for an insane event like this
I am up at four AM. I cleverly planned for classical conditioning all night long in preparation for the full contact swim. Getting kicked and punched all night long by a sleeping but still unbelievably active five-year-old sharing my bed was excellent preparation for getting hit, beaten and kicked by 2,399 other swimmers. My stimulus response has been worn down to nothing. Makes for a great night’s sleep too. I now look and feel my very best. Too bad that the swimming is first, it will be hard to sneak under a bush to take a nap and keep breathing. If we started with the ride or the run, I would be sound asleep under the first bush like a monkey on crack.
Before even getting to the start, I get in a queue of 2,400 of my closest friends in order to get our numbers written on our bodies. Apparently they need to write our race numbers on our arms AND legs. In the (likely?) event that we are separated from one or the other, “they” will know to whom the appendage belongs.
In order to get our numbers, we first have to go through an “inspector” who sends us to one of the two lines, apparently based on how furry we are. Women are inspected and graded also. This guy was excessively cheery for five AM. He must have had a Tim Horton’s IV hooked up to his arm. In addition, I am guessing that he must be using the swimmers/riders bathroom. I was careful not to step in the puddle next to him. There would be plenty of time for that later.
The inspector sent me to the left with the furless crowd so I could have my number written in waterproof, raspberry-scented magic marker on my right arm and calf. The furry people went to the right, where they shaved their numbers into the fur covered arms and calves with a straight razor. I was glad that I had been practicing a fur-free lifestyle for the last few years and did not have to face the razor.
Finally, I get to the swimming start, where the “professionals” get a head start. Apparently, they need it, lest we common folk show them up or get ahead of them. They get their precious fifteen-minute head start, and then we get to go. Let the wrestling match begin. I adjust my bathing cap so the flowers point north and take a deep breath.
It is a beach start, so after the starting gun we move en masse, surging into the water as one body with many, many unsynchronized arms and legs. It is not deep enough to swim and we are moving forward solely by pushing off the bodies nearby. Until they flow forward by pushing back against us. It is an ugly system and no one really seems to gain any ground. And it doesn’t change once we’re fully engulfed in the water. This goes on for an hour and thirty minutes or so. For me anyway. Full contact distance swimming. Good thing I wore my cup. Several people tried to steal my bathing cap. I fought off their attacks, and one person claimed that he thought it was a life preserver, but I did not believe him.
There is absolutely no way to prepare for this event, unless you can get to a seal or penguin filled beach when a school f herring stops by for a visit. Even that will not work, because they can all dive deep and I just drifted along like the flotsam that I am. For lack of options, I devoted many evenings in the bathtub practicing my dog paddle. Turns out, this is NOT adequate training for this event.
Finally, I think I can see people walking….I can feel the ground under my knees. Luckily, I didn’t have my glasses on—that would be odd, wouldn’t it? Therefore, I could not see anything through my goggles except for the blurry outline of the people whom I was hitting the most and the hardest. I don’t want to recognize them later, as I might hold a grudge. Or they might. It is just as well we are essentially anonymous in the water, except for the bathing caps.
I stagger out of the water. There is a one-armed guy is just ahead of me- I cannot believe that he have beat me. I really, really hate that. You would think that the one armed guy would at least swim slower than most of us two armed folks, but no. Huffing and puffing, I make my way into the transition area to find my bag. Funny, here the glasses would come in handy… but I have to find my bag to find my glasses.
A sympathetic volunteer, not the Francophile from Safeway, helps me find my bag. Then he takes me in a tent and tries to molest me. He is trying to take advantage of my exhaustion by removing my wetsuit and bathing suit. Pervert! This was NOT in the brochure and I cannot believe that the Athletic Supporters condone this perversion. Remarkably, I am too tired to care, so I let him do whatever he wants to me as I grab a catnap in the chair. Then he is shaking me awake and holding my shorts for me to step onto, just as I do for my son. I will not think about it, just do what everyone else is doing and let him pull my shorts up on me. They are tight biker shorts—you know the type. I do not think they will even let you in a race like this without spandex and lots of it. He neglects to remove my bathing cap and because I am now used to it, I do not even notice.
I follow the crowd to the bikes. I can see now, and can easily pick out “Black Beauty”. I can pick her out because she has a neon pink frame and electric green tire rims. I’m no fool, you know. Plus, if someone stole it…who am I kidding, no one would even consider stealing it. So I grab "Black Beauty” and take off. Sidesaddle. I’m tired, what can I tell you. If you have never tried to ride a bike sidesaddle, it CAN be done, carefully. You have to have the hoof holders on the pedals, though. Of course, the millions of spectators watching the bikes leave the transition zone are endlessly amused. Like they have never seen that before. They are exceedingly creative in their insults, especially for Canadians. Must be a mostly American crowd, that would explain it.
Almost eight painful hours later, the bike ride is nearing completion. I have not yet died, but am still hopeful. The flowers on my head are wilting. The winner has finished the marathon and set a record for 8:32:45. I am not even done with the bike yet. However, I have seen the one-armed guy—he ran by me on his way out in the run, as I was still fifty miles from the end of the bike ride. I am really starting to hate that guy. Showoff.
End of the bike ride. Hooray!! I couldn’t be happier. I can feel the flowers on my bathing cap perking up. At least now I’m less likely to hurt myself, as it’s not so far to fall, and it certainly won’t be at any significant speed. I can walk, or hobble 26.2 miles, I don’t know of I can do it by the end of the week, but as long as I keep moving forward, keep hoping to die, one or the other will happen.
It is a closed course, so I will not even have the opportunity to be hit by a car. I cannot hope to die that way in the next five hours. I guess I could take a wrong turn, find some traffic and hurl myself in front of it, but that sounds like a lot of work, and isn’t that promising. With my luck, I would be surrounded by helpful and friendly locals who would guide me back and make sure I did not get hurt. They would probably even feed me some TimBits. I would prefer Tiny Tim’s cinnamon doughnuts. This is when I wish I were racing in New York City. Those bastards would run me down in a heartbeat without spilling their mochachinos, or even pausing in their cell phone conversations.
I am making my final approach. I think I will actually make it and I am not yet crawling. The rules say crawling is an acceptable method of moving forward, though apparently rolling is not. I saw a few folks trying it and they got steamrolled.
I am 100 yards out….for the very first time, I think that I may actually make it. I’m very happy. And damn tired too. I have actually passed someone. The first time all friggin’ day. Of course, that “runner” was crawling, but that’s not important right now.
The cameras are on the runners, as we approach the finish line. I am now ten yards away and about to pass someone else. The crowd is going wild, and while I am not remotely sure why they are so excited for me, I am caught up in it. I am in a little clump of runners and as I raise my fists to celebrate with the crowd that clearly loves me, it is possible that I may have knocked over the tiny little woman on my left. I cross the finish line just as she hits the ground. I may have heard relics snapping like twigs. But I might not have. The crowd sours instantly and while I am still celebrating, they are now throwing all sorts of dangerous things at me, and I do not know why. Moreover, I am way too tired to duck.
I hear an announcement that the seventy-nine year Sister Mary Therese Maria Mary Patience, is down. I stop and turn back horrified. The crowd cheers and weeps as Sister Mary crawls on her broken legs across the finish line and they announce her time of 16:40:29. They do not announce my time.
I slither under the bleachers and stay there for three days.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
In order to thoroughly test my endurance, I travel 3,000 miles and three time zones in a little metal cylinder at 35,000 feet, subject to the whims of about a million people wearing uniforms of some type and tiny earphones. Earphones that are probably playing SnoopyDoggieDoo or whatever, but which they pretend are life support systems through which the airport god is whispering about what planes are currently allowed to board and which planes can take off. And which planes should be boarded while the flight crew pretends they will take off, but really will not.
Oh yeah, and I bring the family along because if everyone is not part of this feat, then it is no fun at all. Not to mention it’s not a significant accomplishment. It really is more of a weeklong logistical endurance test. I don’t know if you’ve traveled lately, but that alone is a test to one’s endurance, not to mention willpower in not whacking at least a dozen airline employees who have yet more bad news to share regarding getting to one’s destination. Or not getting there, as is more often the case.
Before it is time to squeeze the family into cramped seats on planes that are not actually going anywhere, I have to ship my bike 3,000 miles. I watch the UPS dude like a hawk to make sure that the bike actually makes it on the truck. For one thing, the bike is worth $8,000USD. And I’m thinking that the UPS dude will have it sold on eBay and out the door at the end of the day, just not to Penticton for the race. With a new shipping label (but me still paying for the shipping). As they load it, I run over to make sure that it is still addressed to the real venue and not the highest bidder. That was a full day’s vigilance. Training, if you will.
If my bike went AWOL, my backup is about two feet tall and has training wheels, streamers on the handlebars and noisemakers in the spokes. I am certain that a) I would not win and b) the other riders would mock me, at least until they thundered out of hearing distance. Therefore, the bike is a crucial element of these festivities.
Okay, the bike was on its way. Now to worry about the rest of the equipment—the bathing cap. I asked my son to get me a bathing cap out of the bathing cap drawer and throw it in my bag. I did not look to see what he chose, as I thought we had only normal, twentieth- century bathing caps. I could not have been more wrong. I spent seventeen-plus hours on race day wearing a bathing cap that most closely resembles a hideous multi-colored flower bouquet that couldn’t possibly have been attractive—nor comfortable—even back when it was made at the turn of the eighteenth century.
Upon arrival in Vancouver, after setting up our own tent city in two different airports as we await news of the next cancellation, the family passes out for some much-needed rest in the rental car. Life is good. And relaxing. Until I am awakened by blaring horns. It seems that someone, namely me, is snoozing while driving on the wrong side of the road (it IS part of the commonwealth- anyone could make that mistake). Crap. Well, everyone is wide-awake now. Double Crap.
Eventually, after a drive nearly as long as some legendary seventh day, we arrive at our destination, Ironman, 2007, Penticton, BC (that is in Canada). This is where it all happens. This is where the ironmen—and women—will be crowned. Some sooner than others. Much, much sooner. Time to relax a bit, explore the town, find a grocery store. Have some lunch and absorb the vibe of the race.
In the store, I am completely baffled by the labels. Everything is in French. How am I supposed to find the Kraft Dinner if I can’t read the box? Overhearing me swearing aloud, some helpful Canadian lady (is there any other kind?) shows me the dual language labels and thus the English side. Apparently some Ironman-hating (American hating?) Francophile employee has turned all products in the store to the French labels just to mess with the Americans. You do not need to speak or read a second language if you are an American. We use volume. We will pump it up until we cannot be ignored. Turns out American is THE International Language after all.
Shopping was done, naps taken, swings pushed and exploring was underway. Playing at the beach was a highlight for everyone. Something tells me that no one else in the family will fully appreciate the sixty-seven degree water for the couple of hours it will take me for a two-plus mile swim. Sure, it looks like fun, but it really is not. Really. Not. Fun.
Time for the mandatory athletes' meeting—the make up one. The one for those who missed the mandatory, mandatory meeting. At least I wasn’t alone. First thing of interest that I learned: be sure to show up at the correct lake. Apparently, there are two lakes, with Penticton between them. The Athletic Supporter (who wore his title proudly, BTW) said if you show up at the lake and you are the only one there, it is either the wrong lake or the wrong day. Mental note- follow the other 2,399 athletes and I couldn’t go wrong.
Second thing of interest that I learned: ALL THREE EVENTS ARE HELD ON THE SAME DAY, BACK TO BACK. No rest breaks, much less rest days, between them. I really have to start reading the fine print. We are here for a week, because someone told me that the events took place throughout the week. CRAP. This is so going to hurt. Maybe I can get started now?
What can I do? If I die en route, then the problem is solved. If I die on the bike ride, maybe a bear will drag me into the woods and I will become part of the ecosystem. I would be okay with that. If I do not die on the bike ride, then I will keep chugging along and hoping. Odds are good that I will die at some point out there and then the pain will end. Sooner would be so much better than later.
The morning dawns. It’s cool. We are in the BC interior in August, usually it sizzles here—a dry heat. However, we are lucky. It is going to be cool, cloudy. Perfect weather for an insane event like this
I am up at four AM. I cleverly planned for classical conditioning all night long in preparation for the full contact swim. Getting kicked and punched all night long by a sleeping but still unbelievably active five-year-old sharing my bed was excellent preparation for getting hit, beaten and kicked by 2,399 other swimmers. My stimulus response has been worn down to nothing. Makes for a great night’s sleep too. I now look and feel my very best. Too bad that the swimming is first, it will be hard to sneak under a bush to take a nap and keep breathing. If we started with the ride or the run, I would be sound asleep under the first bush like a monkey on crack.
Before even getting to the start, I get in a queue of 2,400 of my closest friends in order to get our numbers written on our bodies. Apparently they need to write our race numbers on our arms AND legs. In the (likely?) event that we are separated from one or the other, “they” will know to whom the appendage belongs.
In order to get our numbers, we first have to go through an “inspector” who sends us to one of the two lines, apparently based on how furry we are. Women are inspected and graded also. This guy was excessively cheery for five AM. He must have had a Tim Horton’s IV hooked up to his arm. In addition, I am guessing that he must be using the swimmers/riders bathroom. I was careful not to step in the puddle next to him. There would be plenty of time for that later.
The inspector sent me to the left with the furless crowd so I could have my number written in waterproof, raspberry-scented magic marker on my right arm and calf. The furry people went to the right, where they shaved their numbers into the fur covered arms and calves with a straight razor. I was glad that I had been practicing a fur-free lifestyle for the last few years and did not have to face the razor.
Finally, I get to the swimming start, where the “professionals” get a head start. Apparently, they need it, lest we common folk show them up or get ahead of them. They get their precious fifteen-minute head start, and then we get to go. Let the wrestling match begin. I adjust my bathing cap so the flowers point north and take a deep breath.
It is a beach start, so after the starting gun we move en masse, surging into the water as one body with many, many unsynchronized arms and legs. It is not deep enough to swim and we are moving forward solely by pushing off the bodies nearby. Until they flow forward by pushing back against us. It is an ugly system and no one really seems to gain any ground. And it doesn’t change once we’re fully engulfed in the water. This goes on for an hour and thirty minutes or so. For me anyway. Full contact distance swimming. Good thing I wore my cup. Several people tried to steal my bathing cap. I fought off their attacks, and one person claimed that he thought it was a life preserver, but I did not believe him.
There is absolutely no way to prepare for this event, unless you can get to a seal or penguin filled beach when a school f herring stops by for a visit. Even that will not work, because they can all dive deep and I just drifted along like the flotsam that I am. For lack of options, I devoted many evenings in the bathtub practicing my dog paddle. Turns out, this is NOT adequate training for this event.
Finally, I think I can see people walking….I can feel the ground under my knees. Luckily, I didn’t have my glasses on—that would be odd, wouldn’t it? Therefore, I could not see anything through my goggles except for the blurry outline of the people whom I was hitting the most and the hardest. I don’t want to recognize them later, as I might hold a grudge. Or they might. It is just as well we are essentially anonymous in the water, except for the bathing caps.
I stagger out of the water. There is a one-armed guy is just ahead of me- I cannot believe that he have beat me. I really, really hate that. You would think that the one armed guy would at least swim slower than most of us two armed folks, but no. Huffing and puffing, I make my way into the transition area to find my bag. Funny, here the glasses would come in handy… but I have to find my bag to find my glasses.
A sympathetic volunteer, not the Francophile from Safeway, helps me find my bag. Then he takes me in a tent and tries to molest me. He is trying to take advantage of my exhaustion by removing my wetsuit and bathing suit. Pervert! This was NOT in the brochure and I cannot believe that the Athletic Supporters condone this perversion. Remarkably, I am too tired to care, so I let him do whatever he wants to me as I grab a catnap in the chair. Then he is shaking me awake and holding my shorts for me to step onto, just as I do for my son. I will not think about it, just do what everyone else is doing and let him pull my shorts up on me. They are tight biker shorts—you know the type. I do not think they will even let you in a race like this without spandex and lots of it. He neglects to remove my bathing cap and because I am now used to it, I do not even notice.
I follow the crowd to the bikes. I can see now, and can easily pick out “Black Beauty”. I can pick her out because she has a neon pink frame and electric green tire rims. I’m no fool, you know. Plus, if someone stole it…who am I kidding, no one would even consider stealing it. So I grab "Black Beauty” and take off. Sidesaddle. I’m tired, what can I tell you. If you have never tried to ride a bike sidesaddle, it CAN be done, carefully. You have to have the hoof holders on the pedals, though. Of course, the millions of spectators watching the bikes leave the transition zone are endlessly amused. Like they have never seen that before. They are exceedingly creative in their insults, especially for Canadians. Must be a mostly American crowd, that would explain it.
Almost eight painful hours later, the bike ride is nearing completion. I have not yet died, but am still hopeful. The flowers on my head are wilting. The winner has finished the marathon and set a record for 8:32:45. I am not even done with the bike yet. However, I have seen the one-armed guy—he ran by me on his way out in the run, as I was still fifty miles from the end of the bike ride. I am really starting to hate that guy. Showoff.
End of the bike ride. Hooray!! I couldn’t be happier. I can feel the flowers on my bathing cap perking up. At least now I’m less likely to hurt myself, as it’s not so far to fall, and it certainly won’t be at any significant speed. I can walk, or hobble 26.2 miles, I don’t know of I can do it by the end of the week, but as long as I keep moving forward, keep hoping to die, one or the other will happen.
It is a closed course, so I will not even have the opportunity to be hit by a car. I cannot hope to die that way in the next five hours. I guess I could take a wrong turn, find some traffic and hurl myself in front of it, but that sounds like a lot of work, and isn’t that promising. With my luck, I would be surrounded by helpful and friendly locals who would guide me back and make sure I did not get hurt. They would probably even feed me some TimBits. I would prefer Tiny Tim’s cinnamon doughnuts. This is when I wish I were racing in New York City. Those bastards would run me down in a heartbeat without spilling their mochachinos, or even pausing in their cell phone conversations.
I am making my final approach. I think I will actually make it and I am not yet crawling. The rules say crawling is an acceptable method of moving forward, though apparently rolling is not. I saw a few folks trying it and they got steamrolled.
I am 100 yards out….for the very first time, I think that I may actually make it. I’m very happy. And damn tired too. I have actually passed someone. The first time all friggin’ day. Of course, that “runner” was crawling, but that’s not important right now.
The cameras are on the runners, as we approach the finish line. I am now ten yards away and about to pass someone else. The crowd is going wild, and while I am not remotely sure why they are so excited for me, I am caught up in it. I am in a little clump of runners and as I raise my fists to celebrate with the crowd that clearly loves me, it is possible that I may have knocked over the tiny little woman on my left. I cross the finish line just as she hits the ground. I may have heard relics snapping like twigs. But I might not have. The crowd sours instantly and while I am still celebrating, they are now throwing all sorts of dangerous things at me, and I do not know why. Moreover, I am way too tired to duck.
I hear an announcement that the seventy-nine year Sister Mary Therese Maria Mary Patience, is down. I stop and turn back horrified. The crowd cheers and weeps as Sister Mary crawls on her broken legs across the finish line and they announce her time of 16:40:29. They do not announce my time.
I slither under the bleachers and stay there for three days.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
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