Do you love Valentine and running? This one is for you!
Running Strong for Valentine
by Michèle Laframboise
That idiot groundhog had gotten it all wrong, Lenny Strong thought as he ran, his Brooks Launch 89 plopping in a slush that was the color of Demerara sugar but less inviting. Each step made a moist sucking sound that would have fitted well in a space monster movie, but that promised misery to his toes farther on the race route.
At least, the cold tampered down the municipal dump’s signature smells of burnt plastic and ash, carried several kilometers over by an ill-meaning wind. He had gotten a whiff of plastic burnt as soon as he had opened the door of his Volkswagen in the parking lot of the arena.
Winter was not, definitely not, retreating, despite what the groundhog had said (not in so many words; reporters did the talking).
Wiarton Willy, the Ontario winter specialist, had gotten half his round body out of his lair, sniffed at the cold Owen Sound air, and retreated before the TV crew could get a good look at the mammal to confirm if it was the same groundhog as last year and, more to the point, if Willy had seen his shadow.
Whatever: this winter was like Lenny’s nephews, endlessly changing their mind about what he should buy his girlfriend. As if a pair of six- and eight-year-old boys knew anything about a right gift for a Valentine Day, a gift that would not scream “Made in China along with ten billion others” when his sweet Alice opened the package.
Maybe it would be the last time he could buy something nice for a girl. He felt by reflex the flat cell stuck in his front pocket, a lifeline or a leash. His current employment was about to stop, not that anyone had told him yet. But there were undercurrents of unease among his colleagues, and he knew the updated management program he was helping set in place would render his task obsolete.
He had deposited his final assessment report this Friday. A hovering cloud of unemployment shadowed his every move and eroded his carefully built self-confidence.
That race, at least, helped him escape the pressure that had been slowly building up in his mind. Running had always been his escape from the worries. His baby sister suspected he was an undiagnosed autistic spectrum adult, because he had been a shy and silent child, then a socially awkward, long-limbed teen. His russet hair and long arms had inspired his classmates to call him orang-outang.
His right sole slid on an icy patch that left no purchase for the clever design of his shoe’s outsole ridges. Lenny stomped his left foot, hard, to regain his balance. He heard the papery sound of water-engorged ice breaking, and suddenly lost three inches of altitude.
A chill enveloped his toes; he saw too late that his left foot had sunk in a muddy puddle of melted snow. Lenny had been thinking too much, not watching how the other tracks had sidestepped this too-smooth patch of trail.
He made an awkward dance to get off the earth-tinted puddle, more papery ice cracking and mud sloshing up his other foot, sending gobs of mud around. He must have looked like a fool.
Fortunately, there were not many people standing by to cheer up the runners or post funny pics to Instagram. Races held in the cold of February had their advantages.
At least, the lady in her sixties or her seventies plodding behind him had slowed down and circled around the puddle. She had been running a few paces behind him, her short silver hair held in earmuffs, as lime green as her nylon vest. Her apparel was sober and efficient, and he surmised she drank from the liter-and-half bottle tilted at the back of her belt. Her lined face was set in a determined configuration; Lenny guessed she would probably finish in the first tier of her age group.
He hurried forward, his feet sloshing in icy water. Winter races had their disadvantages, too.
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A sizeable crowd had been packed at the auditorium as the five hundred runners of the Valentine Day Half filed out in a tight pack of pink or red bibs to get close to the START banner. The six-foot high boom boxes had been projecting an orchestral rendition of Chariots of Fire, the kind of movie everyone had heard, because of the score, but that no one had actually watched (to the lasting regret of his sister Merril, who was a movie buff and, yes, had been loosely named after actress Meryl Streep).
The mother of two unruly boys who gave the term ‘perpetual movement’ its sharpest sense, Merril had been swamped in last-minute book-keeping contracts, by clients worrying about the upcoming tax season, unable to attend his feat. And as the “perpetual movement (and noises)” prevented Merril to keep her focus on their spreadsheets, she has nicely asked her brother if he and his girlfriend would be willing to bring the boys out to watch the race.
She had emitted reserves about her big bro running in sub-zero temperatures, but Lenny had the best running apparel his modest salary could get, the latest technology in fabrics and breathable nylon and polar lining from neck to feet.
Wrapping shades transformed his eyes into mirrors, but protected his eyes against UV rays, imprinting the landscape around him in warm hues of yellows and honeys. He was wearing the race’s signature hat, a candy-red knit cap with a white heart over his brow, also made in China with in wonderful polluting polyester.
Well, he wasn’t the one managing the race kits and finisher’s medals, nor seeing to the provenance of the cheap goods in the “looting bags”.
When the horn signaled the start, he had stolen a glance of Alice Windham behind the movable barrier. She was minding the rumbling pair of nephews, in their bright black and gold and red Transformers winter outfits. Her parka was a mud-challenging ivory-cream tone that contrasted sharply with her springing ebony hair and soft brown skin tone.
Alice Wyndham was one of those women who did not need to put layers of foundations and makeup to go out. A grove of stitched Nordic pines on her parka composed a winter landscape that fell naturally on her ample bosom. Even if she wore size sixteen, Alice carried herself with a quiet pride, an aspect that had drawn shy and restless Lenny to her.
Alice ran short to middle-long distances, despite a bulky frame that did not seem to agree with exercise. She ignored the occasional taunt coming from the sides (not from other runners. Long-distance runners knew the training and respected the efforts put into it). Her weight made Alice slower than her age group, but it had never deterred her from taking part in races. That strong will was one thing that Lenny had liked about her.
Today, however, she had taken custody of his racer’s bag with a change of clothes, after helping pin the red half-marathon bib on his left thigh, a place his swaying long arms would not brush off. Many runners had taken this habit, what with the camel-back water reserves, or the ‘munition belt’ of plastic flasks he was currently using. There were four water stations along the way, less than in a summer race, but he preferred to control when to hydrate himself.
There had been too many runners packed tight for him to wave at her. Alice was smiling, her big eyes searching the crowd of colored runners… had she seen him?
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