Wildest Dreams (Thunder Point #9)(46)

Blake loved the marathon; it was his favorite part, even when he was tired. His legs were long, his stride wide and his pace even. Sometimes he thought of his childhood and sometimes he felt like Forrest Gump—someone who could run forever. Moving ahead, moving away from the pack, going forward, had always brought deep satisfaction. And during the race he exercised amazing control, not giving in to the urge to change his pace or up his speed—that took confidence. He trusted his rhythm, his heart rate and respirations; he believed his timing was close to perfect. He was rarely beat in the marathon; he knew what he was doing. Those runners who were desperate to make their mark and pass him dropped back before long because they didn’t trust their training, their pace. Maybe they didn’t know their best, most dependable speed.

This morning as he crouched along the trail and felt the breeze on his face, inhaled the scent of pine and sunshine, he wasn’t thinking of the race. He was thinking of Lin Su. He knew she had seen Gretchen’s saucy move. He knew Lin Su would take that in, weigh it and hold it silently in her head, judging it to mean that she meant nothing to him. She would decide his gentle touch and soft kiss was just a neighborly thing when it was more.

He looked at the sky above the pines. He couldn’t think about that now. Now he had to think about this trail, this breeze, this scent. He would be in a pack of a dozen at this point in the race and he wouldn’t be ahead. He filled his lungs with oxygen; last year this race had been canceled because of smoke in the air. This year the air was clean. He would be ahead after the ascent of two thousand feet, and he would be barely ahead. The descent, if he could hold his heart rate and pace, that was his chance to get ahead if he didn’t screw it up by going too hard or fast. Going down was not easy; it was a trick. Those runners who took advantage of the plunge down and went with it, they got breathing too fast and their respirations huffed and they wore themselves out. You can coast on wheels, not legs.

He’d done this a hundred times. He’d run this race five times; it was a good race. The purse was small but the sponsors were all here. Unless there was a dark horse, he might actually win it.

How could he show Lin Su that he admired her? That he was attracted to her? That he thought maybe they came from the same place and would understand each other?

Don’t expect too much of the future, his mentor would say. Live in the present and let the future evolve as it will and trust. It was a fancy way of saying, You’ll know what to do at the time. Or, Everything will be as it should be.

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.