That was close.
But someone is calling her name – a familiar-looking man, tall and gaunt, he’s wearing a sky-blue windbreaker, he stands on the other side of the orange plastic-weave fence that surrounds the transition area. He’s waving his arms over his head, but her vision has gone all fuzzy, and she’s not sure, but it looks like… Yes, of course, it’s Jago. How could she not have recognized him?
Now that he has her attention, the man in the blue jacket points urgently with both hands to a nearby bike rack, as if he’s guiding a plane to its gate. After a few seconds, she realizes that the signal is meant for her.
She looks down at feet again, as if she’s somehow reluctant to cross the dismount line and formally enter the transition area. But then she shakes her head sharply, as if to clear it, and begins to walk her bike slowly toward Jago and her slot in the bike rack.
“Jillian, are you all right?” Jago glances furtively at his watch, then back at Jillian. He leans on the fence as if to get just a few inches closer to her. “What happened back there?”
Lifting the front of her bicycle, she carefully hooks the aerobars over the rail. When she turns to look at Jago, her eyes are cloudy, distant. “That man,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the statue without looking back at it. “That man over there…”
“What man? There is no one there, Jillian. As you can see.” He speaks crisply, with a vague hint of some kind of European accent. “Get your head back in the race, will you? There are three ahead of you.” He claps his hands a few times as if trying to establish some kind of cadence. “Move,” he says. And then again, with more urgency: “Move! Move!”
With exaggerated deliberateness, as if she’s performing complex tasks that require enormous concentration, she pulls off her helmet and shakes out her hair. She retrieves a bright yellow Falconi RaceTowel from a bright yellow Falconi RaceSack and spreads it carefully over a patch of pavement. “Three?” Jago’s words have finally registered. “The twins and… and who else? Carla?”
“Carla DNF’d some time ago. The twins, yes, and someone else.” He frowns. “You look pale. Why do you move so slowly? Is something wrong?”
She sits on the towel, pulls off her bike shoes, rolls the sweat-soaked socks off her feet. “Someone else? Who?” She sneaks a quick glance in the direction of the statue. As Jago said, no one is there.
“I did not recognize her. Someone new, I think.” He shrugs. “It is not important. But please, you must move faster. You are late enough already. What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” She sounds puzzled, as if she’s asking Jago instead of answering him. But then something flashes in her eyes, and the color rushes back into her cheeks with a nearly audible whoosh. And when she says it again – “What’s wrong with me?” – she’s not puzzled, she’s angry.
“Jillian, please, not so loud…”
“I swam right into a goddamn surfboard, did you know that?” She glares at Jago, as if it were somehow his fault. “Some asshole lifeguard paddled right out in front of me, and BLAM!” She smacks the heels of her hands together for emphasis.
“Yes, I saw,” Jago says. “I was quite concerned. You recovered admirably.”
She ignores his sarcasm. “Yeah, well, did you know that I took two wrong turns? I got lost twice, Jago. Whoever marked the bike course is a fucking moron.”
“Which does not change the fact that you are in fourth place and you are sitting here doing nothing, Jillian. Now stop whining and start moving, will you please? And watch your language.”
She stares back at him, framing a reply, then she shrugs and begins to dry her feet on the towel. “How far are they ahead of me? How did they look?” She slips her feet into a fresh pair of socks.
“The twins…” – Jago glances at his watch – “…less than ten minutes. The other… oh, twenty-five minutes, perhaps half an hour…”
“Half an hour? Jesus, how can that be?”
“For God’s sake, Jillian, keep moving. She looked tired. You can run her down.”
But then his eyes dart away, just for an instant, and she knows that he’s lying.
The new girl, Jillian thinks, the one who passed through the transition area half an hour ago, she didn’t look tired at all.
And Jago thinks she’s going to beat me.
Jago actually thinks I’m going to lose.
I can run anybody down, she thinks, with a confidence born of experience. Anybody.
But, Jesus, half an hour…
And Jillian is so lost in her thoughts that she doesn’t notice that someone is approaching until the woman in the lavender warm-up suit leans over the fence, points a microphone at her, and calls out her name…
֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍
“Jill! Jill Kendal! Can you hear me? How do you feel? Are you going to win the race?”
Without even looking up, Jillian knows. A reporter. A lady reporter, trying to prove that she’s just as ballsy as the guys.
How pathetic.
But Jago will handle it…
“What are you doing?” Even though they are standing no more than a few yards from each other, Jago is screaming at the reporter loudly enough to be heard, Jillian suspects, all the way over on the other side of the transition area. “She is in the middle of a race! Are you crazy?”
Calmly, Jillian slides her feet into a pair of bright yellow Falconi CrossTrainers. Then she looks up. A short, somewhat stocky woman stands at the fence, speaking into a small microphone as she waves to get Jillian’s attention. She sports a garishly colorful warm-up suit, lavender with turquoise stripes. It looks too clean and neatly pressed to have ever been involved in any kind of athletic activity. Beside her, a large round man, unkempt in shabby jeans and a torn T-shirt, holds a video camera on his shoulder and points it in Jillian’s direction.
Jillian rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Reporters. Unbelievable.
Jago continues to scream, something incomprehensible, perhaps not even in English. He advances on the reporter, waving his arms wildly.
Moving with surprising speed, the large round cameraman interposes his considerable bulk between Jago and the reporter. “Back off, buddy,” he snarls, never moving the camera’s focus from Jillian. “We’re press,” he adds, as if that explains everything.
“Jill?” Ignoring the commotion, the reporter leans a little farther over the fence. “Jill? Do you still have a chance? Are you going to win this one?”
Jago’s face turns a deep shade of crimson. His eyes bulge. His hands tighten into fists. Every muscle in his taut frame seems to stiffen, and a low growl rises in his throat. Jillian has to stifle a sudden urge to giggle as an image of a cartoon Jago with steam whistling out of his ears pops into her head.
My God, she thinks, he’s losing it. He’s going to start a fight. Right here in the transition area.
Awesome.
But instead, Jago kicks at the ground in disgust, throws his hands into the air, and spins away from the cameraman. He mutters a few words, kicks at the ground again, and mutters some more. Finally, after one last hot glance at the reporter, he strides grimly back to the fence. “Just go,” he hisses at Jillian through clenched teeth. “Go now.”
Jillian finishes tightening her bright yellow shoelaces. She rises to her feet. She looks at Jago. She looks at the lady reporter. She looks at the large round cameraman. She looks into the camera…
“Jillian.” Somehow, Jago manages to sound both disgusted and desperate at the same time. “Jillian, please!”
She knows that Jago is right, she does have a lot of time to make up. But still, a few seconds isn’t going to make any difference one way or the other, and it’s impossible to resist the opportunity to tease Jago, he’s always so serious…
She stands on her toes and stretches her arms high into the air, and then she bends forward with her chest to her legs and grabs the backs of her thighs, and then she squats and bounces on her knees a few times…
&n
bsp; Am I going to win this one?
What a question.
Staring into the camera, she thrusts both hands out in front of her, chest-high, fists clenched, thumbs up. “Watch me,” she says. Then she grins and winks.
Wheeling around, she pulls a bright yellow Falconi NoSweatBand over her head and breaks into a trot as she weaves her way out of the transition area.
“Reel them in, Jillian,” Jago calls after her. “Run them down.”
She raises a hand and waves back over her shoulder. “I got ’em, Coach,” she says, annoyed that something in Jago’s tone gives her the impression that he doesn’t think she can actually do it.
Without breaking stride, she snatches a cup of water from an outstretched hand, pours the cool liquid over her head, and throws the cup to the ground. Then she grabs a cup of Powerade and downs it in two quick gulps.
“I got ’em,” she says again, to no one in particular.
And then, as she gains speed, once more, to herself, with conviction.
I got ’em.
1.1.2: Hopkinton
Even as she opens the door and steps into the van, Leida Andersen is already firing questions.
“How fast was her first mile? Did you get the time?”
No answer.
“Where’s Michelle?” Leida glances behind her, as if she might have missed the presence of a third person in the van. “Damn it, Jimmy, she knows she’s supposed to be here.”
No answer.
“We have to leave soon, don’t we? What time is it? Don’t we need to get back to Boston?”
No answer.
Leida sighs and starts again. “Jimmy? Her first mile? Did you get the time?”
The large round man who earlier had wielded a video camera now sits at the back of the van, facing a bank of monitors. Adjusting rows of dials on a crowded control panel, he studies the images of athletes and spectators that move through the various screens.
“Look,” he finally says as he flips a switch. “There’s you trying to interview Jill Kendal in the middle of the goddamn race.” He points to one of the screens, and there’s Jillian in the transition area, changing her shoes, rolling her eyes. The big man hoots derisively. “Sometimes you got more balls than brains, Andersen. Good thing you got me to look out for you.”
Looking over Jimmy’s shoulder, Leida examines the video image dispassionately. “Jimmy,” she says evenly, “did you get the time?” She stares at the screen as the camera follows Jillian out of the transition area. Then, again, “Jimmy…”
“Not that you asked,” Jimmy volunteers, “but if you’da tried to interview me while I was in the middle of a goddamn twenty-thousand-dollar race, I’da punched your fuckin’ lights out, myself.”
Patiently, as if she were explaining a difficult point to an especially slow child, Leida begins yet again. “Jimmy…”
“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, lemme see, it’s right here, somewhere.” He rummages through the papers that lay in scattered heaps on the console. “Well, goddamn, I just wrote it down a minute ago. Here… no, hang on…” He sifts through the clutter for several more seconds, then he abruptly swivels around in his chair and faces Leida. Their eyes meet and lock.
“Just how bad do you want it, Andersen?” he leers. Reaching for the top of his jeans, he acts as though he’s going to unzip his fly.
Leida doesn’t flinch. “That really is pretty disgusting,” she says, without apparent rancor. “Even for a pig like you.”
Jimmy’s eyes flash with anger. For an anxious moment, Leida wonders if she’s gone too far. Don’t react, she tells herself. Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s getting to you. It’ll only encourage him.
But then Jimmy’s eyes soften. “Hey, just kidding,” he says. “Lighten up, will ya? Where’s your sense of humor?” With his eyes still glued to hers, he reaches behind himself, grabs a scrap of paper, and holds it up for her inspection. “This what you’re looking for?”
She snatches the note from his hand. “Kendal, mile 1, 6:26.” She looks up. “Six twenty-six – is that good?”
“You’re asking me?” Jimmy snorts and swivels back to the control panel. “Hey, lady, you’re the one who’s supposed to know this shit. You’re the… producer.” He spits out the last word as if it’s especially distasteful.
“Hi, guys.” Noises from the race drift into the van as the door swings open to admit a slender young woman dressed in flowery shorts and a white tank top. She closes the door. The van is quiet again. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, smiling sunnily. “I was trying to…”
“Michelle!” Leida whirls to confront the new arrival. “Where the hell have you been?”
Michelle’s smile wilts. “I… I was trying to line up an interview with the race director. I thought that’s what you wanted me to do. But she’s…”
“Is six twenty-six good?” Leida interrupts.
“Six twenty-six?” Michelle glances at Jimmy for help, but he just shrugs and looks bored. “I don’t…”
“Jill Kendal ran the first mile in six minutes and twenty-six seconds,” Leida says, without trying to hide her annoyance at having to explain herself. “Is that a good time?”
“It… it would be real good for anybody else.” Michelle eyes Leida warily, as if expecting her to spring some kind of trap. “I don’t think I ever ran a six-and-a-half-minute mile. Not in an Ironman, anyway. But Jill’s pretty much in a class by herself, you know? She’ll be doing six-minute miles easy when she hits her stride. Better than that on a good day. Does that… is that what you wanted to know?”
But Leida’s focus has already moved on. Now, she points to a screen where the camera, panning over the transition area, has captured the fleeting image of a lanky man in a sky-blue windbreaker, glancing at his watch. “Wait, wait, back it up, Jimmy… freeze it right there, that’s good. That’s the guy who attacked me. Who is he, do you know?”
“That’s Jill’s coach, Jago Danziger.” Michelle is clearly relieved to know the answer. A tentative smile begins to return. “He’s Russian or something. He had to defect, don’t you remember? It was a long time ago, but it was all over the news, and… He attacked you? Did you say that Jago Danziger attacked you?”
“He said something to Jill about three women being ahead of her, didn’t he?” Leida glances at Jimmy for confirmation, but the big man studiously ignores her. “I only saw two, those twins, the German girls, what’s their name…”
“Kiergaard. Britte and Kristin Kiergaard. And they’re not German, they’re…”
“Right, them. And who else?”
“I don’t know.” Once again, Michelle’s smile begins to fade. “I mean, I saw her, but I didn’t recognize her. She’s not listed in the program. Must be a late entry. I… I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying much attention to the women. You told me to concentrate on the men, remember?”
“If you say so.”
“You told me to concentrate on the men’s race,” Michelle insists. “You said that the men’s race was the story.”
Images of Jillian Kendal dance across a dozen screens. Jillian Kendal wades out of the water. Jillian Kendal leans her bicycle into a sharp curve. Jillian Kendal pulls off her helmet and shakes out her golden locks. Jillian Kendal waves back over her shoulder as she trots out of the transition area.
“I was wrong,” Leida says, in a nearly reverential whisper. “There’s the story.”
On a large screen, in the center of a row of monitors, Jillian Kendal, golden girl of the triathlon, stares back at them, fists clenched, thumbs up, confidence radiating from every pore.
And although no sound accompanies the flickering image, it’s easy to read Jillian’s lips as she commands: Watch me.
1.1.3: Natick
As she closes in on the twins, Jillian tries to think of something devastatingly clever to say. Something that will remind them that, thanks to Jill Kendal, the Kiergaard twins are no longer the top female triathletes in the world. Preferably, s
omething that will make them angry. It’ll be fun watching them try to act like it doesn’t bother them.
But nothing comes to mind. So when she pulls up next to them, just past the nine-mile marker, she says nothing at all, she just looks over at them and nods.
“Hallo, Jill.” The twin running next to Jillian returns her nod. “Good seeing you.”
Like hell, Jillian thinks. “You too, Kristin,” she says. It must be Kristin, she decides. Kristin doesn’t say much, but Britte doesn’t speak to her at all.
A light drizzle has begun to fall, more of a mist than real rain, coating Central Street with a slick sheen. Good thing I’m off the bike, Jillian thinks. I had enough trouble just staying on the goddamn course without having wet roads to worry about.
She glances over at Kristin and Britte. They sport identical tightly wound braids that bounce in unison as they run. “Did you know there’s some new girl ahead of us?”
“Ja, we know.” Kristin sounds pained. “Do you know who she is?”
“She impressed the hell out of Jago, whoever she is. He doesn’t think I can catch her.”
“Jago said that?”
“No way. But he was thinking it, the son of a bitch.”
“It cannot be so,” Kristin says, and Jillian isn’t sure if Kristin means that Jillian can catch the new girl or that Jago doesn’t think that she can’t.
“You and Britte may have to split third- and fourth-place money this time,” Jillian points out, helpfully. “Instead of your usual second and third. If you know what I mean.”
“Jill,” Kristin says, after a long pause, “there is no money for four places in this race. Only three places. Five for the men, only three for us. You did not know?”
“Didn’t know and don’t care. All I care about is first place.”
A policeman holds up cross-traffic on Main Street. He waves and tips his hat to them as they run by. Jillian smiles and waves back. She grabs a cup of Powerade from a wooden table that stands on the sidewalk next to a bus stop with a metal roof. The cool liquid feels good sliding down her dry throat.
Transition Page 2