Authors: Robert Lennon
The Miles (3 page)
“Zane?” Watching the manic display of jumping up and down, the frantic meeting and greeting, Liam felt overcome by a sense of déjà vu.
Was it last year's Gay Pride? The Phoenix Bar? The pier in Provincetown last summer?
Was it last year's Gay Pride? The Phoenix Bar? The pier in Provincetown last summer?
“Oh, I've only been around the club for a little bit,” said Joey, “but Zane is kind of everywhereâeven when he's not. It's impossible to know Fast Trackers without knowing Zane Tyro. You should meet him.”
Before Liam had a chance to object politely and note that he needed to reconnect with his friend, he was double-whammied with Monroe intersecting right as Joey yanked Zane into what was now an odd quartet. Liam could feel his heart flutter and prayed that he might escape an embarrassing recrimination from Monroe. Liam attempted a look of entreaty with his friend, only to find that Monroe was transfixed by Zane.
“So, Zane,” started Joey, “this is a new runner. His name is Liam.”
“Oh, I know you! You're a celebrity in the making! I saw you pass Gene at that race up in Van Cortlandt.”
Yes! No wonder he was so familiar.
Liam nodded, feeling as though an itch inside his head had just been scratched. “You've been the talk of the club ever sinceâand a veritable mystery man at that. And now here you are.”
Yes! No wonder he was so familiar.
Liam nodded, feeling as though an itch inside his head had just been scratched. “You've been the talk of the club ever sinceâand a veritable mystery man at that. And now here you are.”
“Zane, this is my good friend Monroe. It's his first time too.”
“Don't we all wish we could say that!” Zane punctuated his joke by reaching out and tousling Liam's hair. “Well, it's always great to have new people come to the club,” he added as an afterthought.
“So, Zane, do you have an official role here?” Monroe asked. “You flitted in here like a little queen bee buzzing around her little worker bees.”
Monroe's biting sense of humor had always bordered on rudeness. Even good friends often became offended by his combative brand of sarcasm. Behind the focus of his hazel eyes, Zane appeared to examine Monroe's statement like a trinket that he noticed glittering at a bazaar, something that captivated him for a second but proved valueless upon closer inspection.
“Are you only focused on short-distance running, Liam?” Zane gazed again at Liam. “Actually, scratch that thought. It doesn't matter. Even if you're interested in longer distances, you'll benefit from our indoor training program. We're starting up at the track just next week in fact. You can get the whole winter season in. You'll be a huge addition for us.”
“Indoor training? What, like the ordeal of high school track practice? Once in a lifetime was more than enough on that front.”
“Believe me,” Zane said, rubbing his hand along Liam's bicep to emphasize his trustworthiness. “It's a good group of guys who meet up two nights a weekâwork hard, play hard, and a lot of camaraderie.”
“And people of all speeds can join, right?” As the words came out of Liam's mouth, his eyes moved toward Monroe, and he knew he had made an error in judgment.
“I just showed up to keep Liam company,” Monroe said, diverting his eyes toward the floor. “Don't worry, I'm not interested in the track. It was lovely to meet you, though, Zane.”
Questions about the track program immediately surfaced.
How much did it cost? Where were the facilities? Were the runners at the track younger (cuter) than the ones who showed up to jog in the park?
But was Liam expected to disengage from Zane? Would a good friend join Monroe at the buffet station where he currently lathered an onion bagel with cream cheese and jelly? It was a catch-22. If he showed solidarity against the slight suffered by his friend, Liam would be accused of pandering and of mortifying Monroe by reducing him to a charity case. On the other hand, continuing to enjoy conversation with the perpetrators would smack of disloyalty, a trait that Monroe abhorred. Finding it impossible to make his friend happy, Liam served his own needs and drilled down his list of questions.
How much did it cost? Where were the facilities? Were the runners at the track younger (cuter) than the ones who showed up to jog in the park?
But was Liam expected to disengage from Zane? Would a good friend join Monroe at the buffet station where he currently lathered an onion bagel with cream cheese and jelly? It was a catch-22. If he showed solidarity against the slight suffered by his friend, Liam would be accused of pandering and of mortifying Monroe by reducing him to a charity case. On the other hand, continuing to enjoy conversation with the perpetrators would smack of disloyalty, a trait that Monroe abhorred. Finding it impossible to make his friend happy, Liam served his own needs and drilled down his list of questions.
“Don't worry about the specifics,” Zane implored. “Just show up this Tuesday night at seven thirty, and we'll figure everything out.”
Zane took Liam's palm into his own and scribbled the address on his hand. Beneath it, he included a phone number.
“Just in case you need anything before then,” he said.
After the long meet-and-greet social with the Fast Trackers, Liam thanked Monroe profusely for joining him that morning and providing the requisite support throughout the event. Monroe demurred and said that he had not really done anything praiseworthy, and Liam could sense that his best friend still needed some tender loving care to feel that everything was truly right in the worldâor at least in their friendship.
“We're going to Barneys Co-Op,” Liam insisted as they strode into the winter glare of a bustling Broadway.
“You think you own the key to my heart, handsome,” Monroe said, averting Liam's glance. “But don't overestimate the powers of your persuasion.”
“Please,” countered Liam. “You cannot feign indifference here. I know you love getting your designer labels for less. Now, the store is only a block and a half away, so let's quit this faux fighting and get on with our day.”
The beautiful fur-trimmed jackets and ski pants provided the perfect antidote to the bickering that had marred their morning. Luxury goods have a tendency to make one feel that there is no need to sweat the small stuff. Everything is going to be right as rain. Monroe tried on a lumberjack vest and strutted through the store as though he were the Jolly Green Giant. Liam donned an extravagant, multi-zippered parka and pranced around as though he were in the new James Bond flick. And suddenly all the tension dissipated. They were two friends whose only interest was making it through another day in the big city. Each knew the other was there for them through anything that truly matteredâboy problems, financial snafus, work issues, and family dramaâand everything else was just a diversion. Background noise.
Liam picked out a cashmere skull cap in the most vibrant shades of hot pink and fuchsia he had ever seen.
“I am buying this for you!” he said to Monroe, triumphantly. “I need to be able to spot you in crowds.”
He handed the surly cashier a fifty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change. (The gesture was worth more than the $1.48 he was about to get back.)
“I do look fierce, don't I?” said Monroe, sashaying out of the store, sporting the new gift proudly on his bald head.
“Don't ask the obvious, sweetie. I am not here to bolster your already huge ego.”
“The hell you're not!” screeched Monroe. “Why do you think old shrews like me keep young lovelies like yourself around, Liam? Don't open that pretty little mouth of yours and guess ... Let me just tell you that it ain't the witty repartee!”
With that flourish, Monroe pivoted around to hail a taxi across town, while Liam headed swiftly in the opposite direction to get the subway downtown.
MILE 3
L
eaning against the bathroom stall, Liam rushed to remove his dress pants. It was already a shade past 7:30, and the prospect of being late worsened his nerves. Why had he decided to come to the track anyway? His nerves had gotten the best of him during the week since Zane had successfully persuaded him to augment his participation in Fast Trackers with these speed workouts. The sweat had built up during the forty-five minutes of subway time spent stuck between a militant preacher rambling about hell on earth and two teenage girls cracking gum and hyena-laughing, and now his undershirt was glued to his back. Peeling it off, Liam lost his balance and tripped away from the bathroom stall with his bare foot landing in a pool of liquid that had formed as a nasty result of the overflowing urinal and a poor drainage system. Liam had not complained when the attendant in the lobby barked that there were no locker rooms and insisted that everyone change in the bathrooms. Normally, he would have asked where his $350 in membership dues went, but getting ready in a timely fashion trumped exacting pointless revenge on the hourly-wage Armory employees.
eaning against the bathroom stall, Liam rushed to remove his dress pants. It was already a shade past 7:30, and the prospect of being late worsened his nerves. Why had he decided to come to the track anyway? His nerves had gotten the best of him during the week since Zane had successfully persuaded him to augment his participation in Fast Trackers with these speed workouts. The sweat had built up during the forty-five minutes of subway time spent stuck between a militant preacher rambling about hell on earth and two teenage girls cracking gum and hyena-laughing, and now his undershirt was glued to his back. Peeling it off, Liam lost his balance and tripped away from the bathroom stall with his bare foot landing in a pool of liquid that had formed as a nasty result of the overflowing urinal and a poor drainage system. Liam had not complained when the attendant in the lobby barked that there were no locker rooms and insisted that everyone change in the bathrooms. Normally, he would have asked where his $350 in membership dues went, but getting ready in a timely fashion trumped exacting pointless revenge on the hourly-wage Armory employees.
The mint-green cotton shorts that were free with his gym membership renewal and the old Amherst T-shirt he had crammed into his bag as he left the office were now a wad of wrinkles. He compared himself to the three runners lined up at the urinals, the slit of their racing shorts and the light tech-fiber of their tank tops lending a clean line to their long, lean bodies. (They were what his mother would have called
tall drinks of water
.) Liam felt like a dilettante. The people in the club had definitely done their part to make him feel wanted and at home, but he still questioned the wisdom of enlisting in their training program. He hoped that more attractive men who were capable of talking about things other than running might show up to these workouts. Zane had alluded to that possibility during the follow-up call Liam made the day after the fun run, reasserting all the benefits of running intervals on an indoor track and also hinting that “recreational” opportunities existed. After ponying up more money than he could affordâalmost half a month's rentâto join the program, Liam knew he had to follow through even if it meant pissing off the other fact-checkers at the magazine with his early departures twice a week.
tall drinks of water
.) Liam felt like a dilettante. The people in the club had definitely done their part to make him feel wanted and at home, but he still questioned the wisdom of enlisting in their training program. He hoped that more attractive men who were capable of talking about things other than running might show up to these workouts. Zane had alluded to that possibility during the follow-up call Liam made the day after the fun run, reasserting all the benefits of running intervals on an indoor track and also hinting that “recreational” opportunities existed. After ponying up more money than he could affordâalmost half a month's rentâto join the program, Liam knew he had to follow through even if it meant pissing off the other fact-checkers at the magazine with his early departures twice a week.
Liam also sensed that pushing himself out of his shell through attending these workouts would be good for facing the insecurities he had about his body, his talent, and his wardrobe. Though he had run in high school and college, Liam had always felt as though he were going through the motions, flying under the radar. In high school, he ran so that he would have a solid extracurricular for his college applicationsâand he kept it up in college out of habit more than a burning desire to compete. But now after a few years off, Liam felt he was rediscovering something special about the sport, the therapeutic feeling of mental clarity that could be achieved on a run. Liam knew now that this would be the time to push himself.
Liam made it to the team's meeting area on the side of the track about ten minutes late but was relieved to see that the evening's roll call had only just begun. A short black man in impeccably tailored pants and a lavish turtleneck read off a list of names. About twenty Fast Trackers had signed up for the program, and it sounded as though everyone had arrived for the debut session. As the man with the clipboard, whom Liam soon reasoned was the coach, spelled out a series of safety procedures and explained his theories about improving racing performance, Liam's mind drifted off into the surroundings. Thick-legged sprinters pounded down the banked curves of the track as a female coach with a stopwatch shouted out times. Names of local collegesâHunter, Fordham,
C.W.
Postâbreezed across the chests of skinny athletes who ran in huddled packs. The seating around the track was limited and everything inside the amphitheater was utilitarian. There were the large digital displays of time ticking by and the storage rooms for the javelin, high jump, and shot put equipment. Each field event had its own little station on the interior of the elliptical track, but Liam couldn't believe that collisions between runners and field athletes didn't happen regularly given the confined space. The track itself looked teeny and manageable, which Liam found comforting. He had overheard the coach noting that eight rotations around the track equaled one mile.
C.W.
Postâbreezed across the chests of skinny athletes who ran in huddled packs. The seating around the track was limited and everything inside the amphitheater was utilitarian. There were the large digital displays of time ticking by and the storage rooms for the javelin, high jump, and shot put equipment. Each field event had its own little station on the interior of the elliptical track, but Liam couldn't believe that collisions between runners and field athletes didn't happen regularly given the confined space. The track itself looked teeny and manageable, which Liam found comforting. He had overheard the coach noting that eight rotations around the track equaled one mile.
“So what did I say to convince you?” Zane whispered to Liam as the coach said something about easing everyone into the 200-meter track with forty-five minutes of “hut-hut” running.
“I think I just needed a change of pace,” Liam answered. “And, no pun intended there.”
Liam had not been able to distill the reason when mulling over the decision in recent days and surprised himself now with such an apt response. Nothing had changed in his life in the past five yearsâsame job, same apartment, same body. The only thing he cycled through was boyfriends. And even that was a tired, old pattern that he wished he could change. Or at least he wanted to believe that he did. His entire sexual life lately involved going out with Monroe and other friends to the bars until last call and seeing who wanted to sleep with him. At times, it could amusingly bolster his self-esteem to see a parade of guys scope him out from the corners of the bar. Occasionally, he'd even find someone who provided a hot night and a satisfying release but no one that Liam ever wanted to latch on to, or build something with. Mixing things up definitely couldn't hurt.
“Well, good. We need a change of pace here in the club too, and something tells me that you're going to move us in that direction.”
“Okay now, boys. Save some of that energy for the hut-huts.” The coach pointed directly at Zane as he spoke and then ushered everyone into the interior of the track to start the workout.
“So what's with this hut-hut business?” Liam sensed Zane taking him under his wing and decided that someone as well connected and central to the club as Zane would be beneficial as an ally.
“It's politically correct speak for Indian relays. We all run single file and when the leader raises his hand the person in the back has to sprint to the front and then set the pace for the run until he lifts his arm and then the person in the back flies up and on and on. It sounds easy but after doing it for a few miles, it can be a real bitch. You're lucky in that you'll be one of the fastest guys. The slowpokes suck major windâchoke on our exhaustâin this type of group workout.”
A little dismayed by the fact that his one strong finish in a 5K led to such great expectations, Liam nervously bundled himself into the middle of the pack and hoped for the best. The track was a-rumble with fast runners. As the group of Fast Trackers strode around at a pace faster than Liam had ever run on his own, sinewy men from other teams pressed by without showing the slightest bit of effort. After a half mile, Liam realized he was the last in line, and when the guy in front waved his arm up high, it would be his turn to sprint. He felt both severe anxiety and a nascent swell of pride. And when the hand went up, Liam focused on making his body as efficient as possible, on looking only at the person at the head of the line and propelling himself toward that positionâand beyondâto capture the lead spot. It took all of about twelve seconds, but the force and power lit Liam with a thrill and left him with the deep desire for more.
About fifteen minutes into the workout, six of the ten runners in Liam's group had quit in hunched-over dry heaves and spells of light-headedness. With only three other runners battling it out, the sprint portion of this exercise came around with increasing frequency. Liam knew he could complete the second half of the workout; he embraced the pain that now tested him over and over again. Gene suddenly raised his handâfor the only other runners left were Gene, Zane, and Marvin, whose thick calves were rife with batches of bright red hairâand Liam edged into the outer lane and revved up his leg turnover. He straightened his back and leaned forward just slightly, mimicking the suggested running form that all the magazines touted for optimal performance. As he passed Marvin and Zane, Liam noticed that Gene only grew farther ahead in the distance. The coach had specifically stated that everyone should run at a consistently hard pace throughout the workout and should only pick up speed when sprinting to the front of the line. Liam turned his head to silently question Gene's motives with Zane, but Zane had trained his gaze toward the track. And so Liam strained to increase the rate of his foot turnover until he was shoulder to shoulder with Gene, who had begun to squint with pain and wheeze as he thrust his arms faster and faster. Despite the silliness of this battle of wills, Liam had to see this test to the end. He imagined the tips of his toes just barely touching the track before they kicked back in more forceful and definitive strides. As he passed Gene, Liam made sure to glide rather than gallop, unequivocally asserting his dominance. And when he slid into the lead position, he only ratcheted the speed down slightly to continue to tax Gene as he struggled behind. It felt like the least he could do to return the favor. By the time that Liam decided to pull a new runner into pole position, he saw, off in the corner of his field of vision, near the bleachers, Gene leaning by a trash can with his hands cupped over his mouth.
Now that the group was whittled down to three, the rotations went more smoothly, with Zane, Liam, and Marvin running efficiently and respectfully. But in the final minutes of the workout, Liam heard the pounding of a new set of footsteps come up on his right shoulder out of nowhere. There was no breathing audibleâjust the pounce of a sprinter. Liam looked quickly to his right and saw the angular jawbone and those unmistakable brown eyes, steeped in concentration and loaded with determination. The workout had been going so well that Liam did not want to cave in now and ruin his last set due to silly competition. He kept his pace strong but consistent and Didier followed suit. While the gamesmanship exhibited by certain Fast Trackers that evening had intrigued Liam and stoked his competitive fire, he preferred working out for himself and not others.
In the final lap of the workout, Didier ran stride for stride with Liam, and Liam never looked over his shoulder. Instead he focused all his mental reserves, which were now running low, on maintaining perfect form. As they crossed through the finish line, Didier thrust his bony chest out as though he were trying to edge out Liam in the photo finish of some race. With a solid forty-five minutes of hard running behind him, Liam crouched over on the side of the track and collected his breath. Didier swiped his hand quickly over the curve of Liam's spine and thanked him for the hard aerobic run. His teammates from the Urban Bobcats had apparently left for the night already and he needed a reliable fast pacer for his last mile. Liam lifted his head in a gesture meant to connote “not a problem,” but Didier had already begun to jog out of the facility. Liam stared longingly at the lithe outline of Didier's shoulders as he faded out of view.
As Liam changed out of his sweat-heavy T-shirt, Marvin came over to thank him for a good and steady workout. Liam had noticed Marvin's strong and prominent legs when they ran in the park but still could not stop looking at his calves. They were not the massive, bulbous calves of gym mavens who bench pressed hundreds of pounds. Not at all. They were taut and tapered down to his vein-strewn ankles, which somehow supported his overly large feet. Liam pegged them as a size 14. But his eyes lingered over all the wild and prickly hair that sprouted from Marvin's legs, in all manner and direction. The beauty of his legs made up for the more workaday aspects of his face and his forgettable upper body.
“It's always this bullshit warfare out on the track with Fast Trackers,” Marvin said and patted Liam consolingly on the shoulder. “Don't let it bring you down. You've got a much better running instinct than all these queens who can't help but shoot their loads prematurely.”
Liam looked more closely at Marvin and imagined he might be slightly attractive if his eyes were a little larger and set a bit farther apart. They were a strange dark blue, but their beauty was lost to their smallness, to the compact economy that guided every feature of his face.
“It was a bit intense for a first day. And yet it's always like this, you say?”
“Please, don't let it scare you off,” Marvin said. “In time, you'll find it amusing. You'll be able to predict which ego will get crushed on the track first. There's a lot of ... well ... a lot of
personality
in this club. I swear if it hasn't driven you away yet, you'll be good to go around here for quite some time.”
personality
in this club. I swear if it hasn't driven you away yet, you'll be good to go around here for quite some time.”
“My heart hasn't raced like that in quite some time.” Liam realized he batted his eyelashes in a flirtatious reflex. He thought of the arc of Marvin's engorged shaft from the shower the other week. “And I guess that's a good thing.”
“So come to the restaurant with us now. It's just around the corner. You'll get a bigger peek into the club psyche.”
Liam smiled in acquiescence. He
did
have to eat dinner after all.
did
have to eat dinner after all.
A badly conceived cocktail of Washington Heights locals and post-workout runners, the restaurant wore the unsavory scent of cheap musk and drying sweat. As the group entered the pub, a jovial black man greeted Zane with a televangelist's hallelujah smile and an immense hug. He waved the Fast Trackers toward a back room that was somewhat shielded from the off-key wails of the bar's karaoke Tuesday. As he sat down at the table of twelve, Liam could hear the reverberation of the screaming chorus: “I only WANNA see you, baby, in the purple rain!”
Other books
The Forbidden Room (Fairy Tales Behaving Badly) by Eppa, Annie
The Nightmare Man by Joseph Lidster
Shorecliff by Ursula Deyoung
Jonah and the Last Great Dragon by M E. Holley
Secret Curves (Dangerous Curves Book 5) by Marysol James
Children of the New World: Stories by Alexander Weinstein
Lizzy Harrison Loses Control by Pippa Wright
My One and Only (Ardent Springs Book 3) by Terri Osburn
The Long Walk Home by Valerie Wood
When Love Calls by Lorna Seilstad