Maybe I’ve gotten too used to elite positioning. My transitions are ideally under four minutes. Five if I take a nature break to relieve myself.
I remember those crowded transitions of the age categories when I first started competing. You might lose your row and not know where you need to be. A piece of your equipment might have gotten knocked out of place. Or it might just be too congested to get out of the transition area cleanly.
I remember the frustration of traffic jams.
But there is nothing in the way of me, or the girl running in front of me, now.
Her body moves fluidly as she jogs. There is a natural ease to her movements. Each footfall is swift and the muscles in her legs twitch to power her next stride.
Each elbow pulls back and pumps forward in turn on either side of a straight, well aligned back.
The single braid down her back pendulums from side to side in time with her steps.
Her hips?
The sway of her hips is hypnotizing.
From here I can see the early summer sunrise glint off the sheen of sweat she’s developed in the morning’s humidity.
A turn in the path around Belmont Harbor reveals her profile and I know it’s her.
How long has she been out this morning? What is her training plan? Was the half TP yesterday a warm up race for her? Is this a hobby for her?
Or is she like me and driven to excel?
The secret of high performance in endurance sports is mental fortitude. You prepare your body, you fuel it correctly, train it to do what you need it to do.
But no matter how prepared you are, by the time you start the marathon portion of a TP race, you’re metabolically exhausted. Your mind is screaming at you not to do what it knows you’re about to do.
And for most ametures, the day after is torture. Muscles burn, joints ache, your stomach feels hollow but churns in a way that makes the idea of eating a terrifying prospect.
By my second season running I had the day after under control. Three hundred and sixty-five days of training means each one hurts a little but I push through it regardless.
And while I thought today would be an easy run, my pace is noticeably faster than I was expecting.
Almost like my feet are motivated by the promise of getting her attention again.
I catch up to her quickly but instead of slowing down to run with her, I push past.
"On your left." I call out as I overtake her on the otherwise empty path.
"The fuck?" I hear her say and I continue at my pace past her.
I can feel her at my back. I know she isn't far. But for a few paces I am able to concentrate on my form and my mental focus. I hit that place where running becomes a meditation. Each thump of my foot sends vibrations through my body and relaxes me.
"On your left!" I hear as a blonde blur rushes past me.
In TP races you are racing the clock. What it comes down to is the person who slows down the least ends up winning. Yeah, you’re out there against other competitors, but very rarely do things come down to a foot race between two athletes.
For thirteen years I have been running my own race. And it has won me several and kept me competitive.
So I couldn't tell you the reason I quickened my pace to catch her again.
Liar.
I can absolutely tell you but I’m not ready to admit how attracted I am to this magnetic force of a woman.
"On your left." I announce as I breeze past her again. But not quickly enough to miss the flush of her cheeks and her youthful glow.
