Wildest Dreams

  He went back to his condo and prepared for his race. He rested, meditated, practiced his breathing. He envisioned the race and worked on his nerves. Funny how after this many races, this many years, his nerves could still jangle. It made him very quiet and introspective. For obvious reasons he always had this feeling, deep in his gut, that if he wasn’t the fastest, wasn’t faster than everyone else, he wouldn’t survive. Intellectually he knew that wasn’t true, nor was it the real purpose of his race, even though he was a competitor through and through. That was his baggage.

  He was up at four, ate his kale, oats and quinoa, banana and jerky at five. Got his gear set up, anything that wasn’t ready the night before. There was a support crew of eight for the Tyrene clientele but Nigel, Gretchen’s right-hand man, was personally looking after Blake’s equipment and would have his bike ready in the rack for after the swim and would be responsible for it before the marathon. They operated like a pit crew at the transitions—transfer of equipment, quick report on times, et cetera. Blake swam in his cycling shorts, changed shoes, ran in the same shorts. Along the way there would be water; Blake added small gel packs now and then. Occasionally they’d substitute a shot of sugar, a candy.

  In the chaos of race setup—all the athletes gathering, collecting their numbers, getting final instructions from buddies, coaches, partners—Blake always went numb. He started hearing all the voices as if they were speaking in a tunnel—muffled and slow. He nodded now and then and there was no point in arguing, but by now it was too late to introduce any new instructions. He was busy inside his head remembering everything and nothing, trusting his experience and instincts, reminding himself from this point it was just a go. The gathering in divisions lasted for over an hour. Being in the pro men’s class, he had to wait for his wave to be called, so he stretched and did his breathing. He was hot even though the air was cool, and he paced. Paced and stretched with Nigel in his ear. Wind at ten knots, temp is sixty-four, water temp is sixty-two. Your event times are ranked fourth but you have the highest number of races in this event. We’ll be ready with numbers, wind and temp readings...

  He lived for the sound of that horn because the waiting was almost as hard as the race. Once he heard that horn, ran and dove into the lake, all anxiety was gone and all he thought about was the race.

  He was surrounded by swimmers who would soon be behind him and for right now all he heard was the rhythm of his breathing, his arms gliding through the water, the silence of the water and the smooth kick of his feet. Funny that this would be his best event, the thing that could’ve killed him once when he couldn’t swim. Now he thought swimming was the most relaxing part of the race. His time on this segment was always excellent.

  He was gliding quickly, efficiently, and there was a little tension at the thought of the bike, his hardest segment. For some people it was the easiest, but for him, so tough. The length of his legs, even with a custom bike, made that segment too much work. But the swim was good; his time was right where he wanted it to be minus fifty seconds.

  He had hours left to this race.

  Out of the water, he dried his feet and got into the cycling shoes. He bent to adjust the tightness, took a gulp of water, got on and shot away. And although he tried, he could not get the number out of his mind—one hundred and twelve miles. His quads would begin to ache twenty miles in and burn at fifty miles. Running somehow set him right. His long legs fell into an easy, fluid stride and a relaxed, fleet pace. No matter how much he trained, the bike was his challenge. No matter how light and customized the bike, his legs would rather run. He was convinced it was all mental.

  He had an image of Charlie taking off on his bike at warp speed. The kid who might’ve grown into adulthood without ever owning a bike, never really appreciating one or riding one. He saw the joy on the kid’s face even while he was huffing and puffing. He caught a glimpse of Lin Su glowering at him, pretty much telling him to butt out of her business, her son’s asthma, her life. And it made him smile. The first time he’d ever smiled on a ride. He wasn’t aching or burning; he wasn’t pumping. He was gliding almost effortlessly, so he assumed he was falling behind.

  Someone sailed past him. Griffin. Australian. He had a reputation for taking early leads and had never won a race, though he’d placed very well in a few and was going to win one pretty soon. But Blake decided to just indulge himself, let himself think a little about a kid with asthma so damn grateful to be able to ride a bike for a little while, so apparently unaffected by the trouble in his ’hood, so protective of his mother.

  The kid who wanted to know who he was.

  His pace steady, he passed Griffin and shot out ahead, so of course he worried that he’d lost his pacing, but it was too late now—you don’t drop back unless you’re out of steam and he felt strong. He had some tough competition for the run, though. Those hills.

  He was gaining on the last curve, feeling a little disoriented, grabbed his bottle of water and squirted some in his mouth, swished, swallowed and bore down. He could hear a dozen cyclists on his tail and forced himself not to think about them—this was traditionally his worst event and he’d make up for it in the run if he didn’t totally deplete himself. His legs were always quivering after the ride. But before he could even think about it, he came up on the transition and his support crew was ready to intercept him.

  “You shaved two minutes!” Nigel whispered excitedly.

  Blake used his toes to peel off his shoes, wiped off his feet, stuck a few gel packs in his pockets, tied his running shoes quickly but carefully. Nothing worse than starting a race with a shoe that pinched. He swallowed some water, stretched out his legs and off he went.

  And yeah! This was his home turf. He fixed his pace, moved his arms all over the place to stretch them out, then got comfortable. Within ten minutes seven runners had passed him and he just thought, Go for it, boys, go for it. You’ll regret that...

  An hour and a half in, he got to the climb—two thousand feet in five miles. This would take out the best of them so Blake remembered the smell of pine, the softness of the breeze, then the ferocity of the wind through the mountain pass and he told himself he was just visiting this place. His pace slowed because the work he did here was monumental, so he congratulated himself on staying steady and strong. Then it was level and his pace moved up just slightly—it was tempting to take advantage of the level track and push too hard. When he did that, the last five miles were deadly. Just before the trip down, there was a water station and he stuck out an arm. Five miles more and he stuck out his arm for water again. Then he was headed down and he maintained his constant speed. He could feel the pain in his heel and he concentrated on fluidity of movement and reminded himself not to hit the trail but caress the trail. And the hours moved by steadily and his long legs ate up the distance.

  There were three runners ahead of him. He nudged his pace up a notch, then another. He passed an Austrian he’d raced before, then an Italian whose legs were too short for the trek, so he was moving them like mad at the end, pumping his arms and panting like bloody hell. The finish line came into view, three-quarters of a mile down the track, and he thought he could hear those pimps and gangbangers on his heels and he pressed into a solid canter, stretching out his stride, flowing over the ground. He wondered where he was in the pack; he wondered how many had crossed the finish line. Then he heard the screams, the shouting, the chanting, the cheering. He stretched it out, pushed into the nearest thing to a sprint he had in him and, arms over his head, he crossed the line and tore through the tape.

  Holy Jesus, he wasn’t supposed to win this one; he was just supposed to scare the living shit out of the rest of them. But what happened?

  “Nine-fifteen!” Nigel bellowed. “Nine-fifteen! On a fucking mountain!”

  He braced his hands on his knees and leaned down for a second, concentrating on not puking, and when he was sure he wasn’t going t
o, he slowly stood and began pacing, walking it off, pushing his way through an encroaching crowd.

  He had a towel around his neck, a bottle of electrolyte-laced water in his hand, Nigel in his head telling him how close he’d come to a Tahoe record, people crowding him with congratulations. He’d done that? Someone said Griffin had come in fifth; Abraham Cadu, a well-known African athlete who was the favorite for this race, was behind him by a minute and a half, which meant had he not trimmed two minutes from the bike he wouldn’t have won.

  Which meant watching Charlie and Lin Su in his head had been like holding a carrot in front of a stampeding horse.

  Someday he might tell them.

  * * *

  Charlie was sitting at Winnie’s dining room table with his laptop open. He had it plugged in because it was going to be a long day. It was Saturday and he’d been there on and off all day. It wasn’t easy to follow the race via computer because it wasn’t live, but there were regular updates complete with pictures and some video streaming that was pretty reliable. Finally, while Lin Su was in the kitchen trying to put together a chicken divan recipe that Winnie wanted her to try, Charlie erupted.

  “You are not going to believe this! He won! At least, I think he won! They’re doing the awards tomorrow, but there’s a live video stream of... Yeah! That’s him! That’s Blake! First one over the finish line. Nine hours! He raced for over nine hours!”

  “Dear God,” Winnie said. “Who does something like that?”

  Lin Su was just making her way around the breakfast bar when she noticed that Winnie was reaching for her walker and struggling to stand. Before Lin Su could rush to her to help, Mikhail was beside her.

  “You worked very hard when you were competing,” he reminded her.

  “I practiced, and yes, it was hard, but in competition I skated a two-minute program,” she said. “Let me be! Let me do this!” She wrestled the walker away from him and moved steadily toward Charlie. “I hate this god-awful thing, but at least I can get around without always needing help!”

  “If you don’t go slowly you will need help getting off floor,” Mikhail said. “But do as you please. You can always get new nose after you fall on your face.”

  “Charlie, push out that chair for me,” she said. She sat down beside him. “Let me see what you see there,” she said, leaning toward the laptop.

  “Yep, that’s it, he has the best time,” Charlie said. “When’s the news come on? This should be on the news, right? Or ESPN? Let me look it up? Where are Ironman triathlon results reported? Aw, come on,” he said impatiently to the computer. “When did he say he’s coming home?”

  “Certainly not immediately,” Lin Su said. “Charlie, he can’t be in any shape to drive from Lake Tahoe tomorrow! It’s a long drive. Maybe eight hours.”

  “Eureka is only four hours away but he’ll go straight up 5,” Charlie insisted. “But Tahoe... I’m going to text him.”

  “Honey, don’t bother Mr. Smiley,” Lin Su said. “He just raced for over nine hours! And you know he doesn’t have his phone with him!”

  “Text him,” Winnie said. “He’ll catch up with his phone.”

  Lin Su sighed heavily. “Did it ever occur to you to be a good influence?”

  “I am. I’m training Charlie to trust his instincts. He should text. After all, the rooting section is right here and we’ve been waiting all day.”

  Charlie’s thumbs started clicking away wildly. Lin Su found herself thinking that if he learned to do his homework as rapidly, he would be president one day. But the clicking went on...and on...and on...

  “Charlie, what are you saying to him? For heaven’s sake, don’t you think he’ll be a little tired after today?”

  “I think he won’t look at his texts until he’s recovered a little,” Winnie answered for Charlie. “What did you text?” she then asked Charlie.

  “Asking if he really won, saying we’re all watching and tracking the race, waiting to hear the official results, that we hope he feels okay and was it a good race and when is he coming home and does he want me to fly down to Tahoe and drive him so he can rest.” And at that last, he grinned his best boyish grin.

  * * *

  Lin Su finally coaxed Charlie home just before eight. She suggested a movie and popcorn, but he wasn’t interested. He wanted to read one of his training books and keep his phone and laptop open in case there was any news from Blake. Feeling like a movie for herself, she told Charlie to go to her bed with his book and electronics and she would keep the volume down.

  Grace had introduced Lin Su to her stash of chick flicks and she had selected two. Troy had added two DVDs that Charlie might find tolerable—one action, one spy drama. Since Charlie was into his training program, Lin Su popped in The Holiday and pretended to be Cameron Diaz falling in love with Jude Law. At about the time she was going to make a commitment to Jude, she heard Charlie’s phone chime with an incoming text. She waited and listened but didn’t hear anything. Then the phone, in the other room, chimed again. She put the movie on pause and got off the couch.

  Poor Charlie. He was sprawled over his book, his glasses all wonky, his laptop sleeping as soundly as he. So she picked up the phone and read the text.

  Just got your text. Yep, I took it—surprised me as much as anyone. I want to come home tomorrow, but we’ll see how I feel after awards in the morning.

  She picked up the phone and took it to the couch. She began to text.

  Congratulations. Lin Su here—Charlie fell asleep but he was waiting to hear from you. I’ll tell him about your text in the morning.

  She was barely finished when her cell phone began to ring and she answered in surprise. “Hello?”

  “What’s a fourteen-year-old kid doing asleep at ten o’clock on a Saturday night?” Blake asked.

  “I think following your race, the excitement of it and all, just wore him out. He’s sprawled on my bed, his training book under his head and his laptop... Wait a minute. What’s a triathlete who just completed a nine-hour race doing up?”

  “Nine hours and fifteen minutes, thank you very much. I was a little too wired after the race. And there was a little celebrating to do. I’m winding down now. I should sleep well.”

  “I’ll bet. Was it awful?”

  “It was awful good. I never expected to win that one. In fact, I was planning on not winning, but I wanted to do well. Well enough so that when the front-runners for the Kona talk about contenders they’ll notice how well I did on the mountains and speculate on how that translates into the island race and fear me.” He laughed. “That’s what I was going for. I’ll have to remember that. Obviously good strategy.”

  “Are you sore?”

  “I had a rubdown, I’m all right. The morning after a race is always a little creaky, but I’m feeling good. And you? You’re all right?”

  “Me?” she asked. “Oh, I’m fine. Very well, thank you. I got Winnie a walker and she’s now a speed demon. We’re going to have to keep an eye on that.”

  “Charlie’s workouts are going well?” he asked.

  “He’s very happy with his progress. You said six days a week, less than an hour each day, but I’m afraid he’s impossible to stop—he’s at it every day and has to be bribed off the equipment after an hour. I haven’t seen him this excited about anything since the day he inherited that laptop from one of my patients a few years ago.”

  “No problems with his asthma?” Blake asked.

  She was reminded that’s what their relationship was all about—Charlie’s training program. “No problems at all. Be sure to tell Gretchen he’s doing well. He was quite taken with her.”

  “No doubt,” Blake said with a laugh in his voice. “I’ll try to remember if I talk to her.”

  “But she’s there,” Lin Su said. “That’s her job, to be there whil
e you race, isn’t it?”

  “Gretchen decided to race in the women’s division. She finished very well. I haven’t seen her since the race. We all went in different directions. I had acquaintances here, and she had other clients and the support crew from her training facility. They’re all going back to Boulder together, probably tomorrow, but I didn’t ask. No worries, I’ll be talking to her this week—she runs statistics for me routinely.”

  “Statistics?”

  “Race times, winners, weather conditions, everything. Plus she keeps my personal statistics logged, just like what Charlie’s doing for his training, though for a slightly different reason.”

  “Slightly,” she echoed.

  “I haven’t talked to you too much since you moved into your loft. Gretchen was in residence and I was getting in that uncommunicative race mode. So, is it good? Your loft?”

  “Grace’s loft,” she corrected. “When she was renovating the flower shop she finished off the upstairs, which had been used for storage. Now it’s a small apartment. It has as much of a kitchen as I had in that trailer but is so much more comfortable. And I guess I don’t have to tell you about the neighborhood...”

  “Plus you’re close to your job,” he said.

  “And school. Charlie seems to really like the school. He’s getting phone calls from girls about homework.”

  “That always helps a guy settle into a new school, a little notice from the girls.”

  “He says he took Frank’s advice and is offering to help the kids with their studies. Um, Frank... Frank’s a kid from town Charlie met last summer. He’s a genius, Charlie says—going to MIT on a scholarship. But as Charlie tells it, Frank was a nerd in glasses and kind of small when he was Charlie’s age, so they bonded.”

  There was quiet for a long moment. “That kid,” Blake finally said. “Never underestimate that kid. He has great insight. His instincts are on target.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “He amazes me. Um, I should hang up now. You should rest—you’ve had a very long day.”