Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  “Nobody can tell me that I don’t work hard.” Jillian tries to control her temper, but it’s a losing battle. Her hands ball into fists, and she can feel her face begin to flush. “You can’t be serious. What the fuck do you think I’m doing out here in the middle of nowhere at this hour of the morning? You think I don’t have anything better to do?”

  “I don’t think that you have any idea of what it means to work hard,” Jago says, calmly. “You do what you enjoy. Everything has always come so easy for you. You are like a spoiled child.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that!” Jillian says, her anger boiling. “I’ve worked my fucking ass off for everything that I’ve ever done. I’m sick of you telling me what to do. Pushing me all the time. I don’t need anybody to push me. I push myself hard enough. I know what’s best for me.”

  Jago purses his lips. He seems calm, but she knows him well enough to know that he is seething inwardly. “I have coached many true champions, Jillian,” he says. “And I had hoped to help you become one, someday. But now I see…”

  “I am a fucking champion!” Jillian screams at him, with an intensity that surprises even her. Jago draws his head back, as if he’s reeling from the shock waves. “I haven’t lost a race in five years! FIVE FUCKING YEARS, Jago. Am I getting through to you? No woman has ever run a marathon faster than me. No woman has ever done an Ironman faster than me, ever, in the history of the whole fucking world! What the hell do you WANT from me?”

  Jillian can feel tears starting to well up, but she wills them back; Jago would surely interpret crying as a sign of weakness. “It’s never enough for you,” she says, bitterly. “Nothing I do is ever good enough for you. I don’t even know what you want from me anymore.”

  “Jillian, my dear…”

  “Don’t give me any of your ‘my dear’ crap, Jago.” Jillian’s hot anger has chilled to a brittle edge. “Maybe that works on your little ten-year-old girls. Maybe they bought that slop back in Czechoslovakia, but I really am sick and tired of you talking down to me all the time, like I’m some kind of fucking peasant.”

  “Jillian…”

  “And where do you get off thinking that you’re such hot shit, anyway? Without me, nobody would even know who you are.” He’s hardened his shell, like he’s still wearing his helmet, and her words seem to be bouncing off him. The calmer he gets, the more she wants to hurt him. “I’m the one who does all the fucking work, and then everybody writes articles about what a wonderful coach you are. That’s a laugh.” She snorts. “I was winning races long before I met you, and I can damn sure keep winning them without your help.”

  “Are you quite finished?” He actually has the audacity to seem slightly amused.

  “SMU pays you to help me, not to tell me what to do,” Jillian says, but she’s starting to wind down. “You’ve got it all backwards. You’re a hired hand, Jago, don’t you know that? When I think I need some help with my swimming, I’ll come around and let you know what you can do for me. But don’t ever think that you can order me around.”

  “May I speak?” He eyes her coolly. After a few seconds, she exhales sharply and looks away. The uneven drone of an unseen tractor drifts over the fields. A lazy hawk circles silently overhead, riding the updrafts with effortless ease. The Texas heat is building in earnest.

  “I have tolerated your disgusting little temper tantrums for three years, Jillian,” Jago says, when she does not respond. “And I have not the slightest inclination to put up with them any longer. You are on your own. I wish you the best of luck.” He lifts his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. “However,” he continues, “since I am, as you so kindly point out, a ‘hired hand’…”

  “Jago, I didn’t…”

  “Please allow me the courtesy of not interrupting me.” He holds up a hand for silence. “Because my employer will no doubt require it, I am afraid that I must make myself available to you in the event that you should you change your mind and decide that you do require some assistance in the future.”

  My God, Jillian thinks, he’s serious about this. He really doesn’t want to be my coach anymore. All I wanted him to do was to get off my back, to give me some breathing room, and he’s gone and blown it way out of proportion.

  “Jago…” she begins. She wants to say: Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, calm down, let’s forget about it, okay? I’ll even try working out with weights if you really think I should. But then she thinks: I’m not going to beg the son of a bitch, he’s the one who should be apologizing to me. Spoiled child? Temper tantrums? Who does he think he’s talking to?

  “Jago,” she finally says, trying to sound reasonable, “you’re being ridiculous. You’re the one who’s acting like a child.”

  They eye each other guardedly in an uneasy silence. “You know where to find me if you need me,” he finally says. “Good day, Jillian.” Slowly, deliberately, he pulls his helmet back on, turns the key, circles around her, and glides away on the road back to Dallas.

  For a few minutes, Jillian watches him disappear into the heat that’s rising off the blacktop in waves. Come back! she wants to call after him. I’m sorry! But she says nothing. Finally, after a few, long minutes, she turns around and begins to run purposefully toward the offices of Claney-Deo Oilfield Services, and her ride home.

  2.2.11: Dallas

  The drive home is eerily quiet. Today’s driver is a young guy, maybe a year out of high school. As far as Jillian can, tell his main contribution at Claney-Deo is making sure that the coffee is always fresh and hot.

  This is his third time on the “bike run,” and Jillian’s always found him to be easy to talk to. But today, she doesn’t want to talk. They drive most of the way in complete silence. At one point, the kid turns on the radio to fill the void, but Jillian simply reaches over and turns it off, and that’s that.

  At home, Jillian sprints up the stairs and dashes into her room. Where is that address book? She digs frantically through one drawer, then another. Finally, in a small, cardboard box labeled NAIROBI in red magic marker, hidden in the back of a closet, she finds it.

  Now, what was the name of that cyclist, the guy who won the silver medal, skinny kid from San Diego, nice muscles – Costello? Casselli? Here it is – Sal Canelli. What are the odds that he still has the same phone number? She quickly punches in the number, but a recording says that it’s not in service. Damn.

  But wait a minute, who was that other one, the kid that Canelli used to hang with? She remembers them saying how unusual it was that two guys from the same cycling club had made it to the Olympics. What was his name? He had been favored to win the gold, but he hadn’t won any medal at all. A couple of flat tires or some kind of hard-luck story.

  Nobody remembers the names of losers, she thinks. No matter what their excuses are.

  Pruitt, wasn’t that it? Frank Pruitt? Mark Pruitt? But no name even remotely resembling Pruitt appears in her address book. In fact, a search through the entire book doesn’t turn up any names she remembers as being cyclists. Some of the names don’t even look familiar. Who are these guys, she wonders, shaking her head.

  But some of them do evoke memories of working and playing, of practicing and partying, and especially of the thrill of crossing the finish line with a new record for the women’s marathon. Breaking the tape, running a victory lap, arms high, the crowd, a hundred-thousand strong, on its feet, clapping and stomping, chanting KEN-DAL! KEN-DAL! KEN-DAL!

  Winning.

  That’s what it’s all about.

  And now, I’m going to do it again.

  If the goddamn drafting rule doesn’t mess me up.

  I have to find out. I need more information. Right now.

  She Googles:

  sal canelli

  …and comes up with a lot of references to his silver medal, but nothing since then, and no contact information.

  What about the club? She Googles:

  bicycle club san diego

  …and there it is, t
he San Diego Cycle Club. She clicks over to the website, finds the “Contact Us” link, and there’s the phone number. The woman who answers says that she’s new, but she’ll check the membership listing. No, no Sal Canelli. No, no Pruitt of any kind. Let me get the manager. He’s been here longer, he knows everybody.

  The manager does, indeed, remember Sal Canelli. “But he’s not with this club. Never was. I don’t think he even rides anymore, haven’t even heard his name in years. Since the Olympics, I guess.”

  What about Pruitt – Frank, or Mark, or something? “You mean Nick Truitt? Oh yeah, he’s still around. He’s gonna be riding in the Olympics again this year, didn’t you know? But he’s not at this club, he’s over at San Diego Road Warriors, same club Canelli used to ride with. Yeah, it is kind of a hokey name, isn’t it? Sounds like a motorcycle gang or something. But what the hey. Hang on, I’ll get you their number…”

  The man who answers the Road Warriors’ phone confirms that Nick Truitt is indeed a member, and also that Sal Canelli dropped out of sight four years ago. “Just burned out, I guess,” he says, wistfully. “Great rider. Hope he’s doing real good, whatever he’s doing.” Nick Truitt’s phone number? “Sorry, that’s confidential information. But I’ll take your number and have him call you next time I see him, probably tomorrow.”

  But she has to talk to him today. Right now, in fact. She tells the man who she is, and she can tell from the quick change in his tone that he’s suitably impressed. She explains the situation, patiently but insistently, and begs and pleads and wheedles until she hears him mentally throw up his hands in defeat. “But you didn’t get this from me, capisce?” he says.

  Please be home. But the phone just rings and rings. She’s about to give up when somebody picks up. “Hello?” murmurs a sleepy voice, tentatively.

  “Nick Truitt?” she asks, hopefully.

  “Yeah. You woke me up,” the voice mutters. “What do you want? This better be good, bucko.”

  “Nick, I’m so happy I finally tracked you down. I didn’t think I’d ever find you,” Jillian says, breathlessly. “This is Jill Kendal. I don’t know if you remember me…”

  “Remember you!” The voice comes to life, an instant transformation. “Remember you! Holy shit, Jill Kendal, I don’t believe it. Where are you? You here in town?”

  “No, no,” she laughs, “Calm down, big fella. I’m calling from Dallas.”

  “Bummer,” Nick says, with obvious disappointment. “I thought that you were finally taking me up on my offer.”

  Offer? She barely even remembers the guy, he was just someone who hung around with the irrepressible Sal Canelli. What offer had he made? To show her around town? Buy her a drink? Something more intimate? Some of these athletes think that they’re God’s gift to women, no telling what kind of proposition he made.

  “Ummm… no, nothing like that,” she hedges. “Sorry. Really, all I wanted was to ask you a question.”

  “Hey,” he says, “I bet you’re going out for the Olympics again, aren’t you? I heard about them adding the Ironman. Ain’t that a kick?”

  “Well, actually, Nick, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Hey,” he says again, “I’m gonna be over there too, you know. In Qen Phon, I mean. Maybe we could get together, go for a ride. Maybe I could show you a thing or two, give you some pointers.”

  “Yeah, sure, that would be great,” she says with feigned enthusiasm, although she suspects that the things he wants to show her have nothing to do with bicycles. “I’ll take all the help I can get.” And now that she thinks about it, that might not be such a bad idea after all, getting some last-minute tips from a world-class cyclist couldn’t hurt. “But what I wanted to ask you about…”

  “Hey,” he repeats, “I’ll tell you what, I’ve been thinking about going out for the triathlon myself, now that they legalized drafting. Maybe you can give me some pointers.”

  Jillian’s heart sinks. “Why do you say that?” she asks, trying to sound nonchalant. “What difference is drafting going to make?”

  “Hey, are you kidding? Just all the difference in the world, babe, that’s all.” He pauses. “Say,” he says, slowly, “I bet you’ve never done any bicycle racing, have you? Outside of a triathlon, I mean.”

  “No, I haven’t,” she admits. “I’ve thought about it, but…”

  “Well, hey, you oughta give it a shot. But enough of this. You didn’t call me just to shoot the shit. What’s on your mind, lady?”

  “Well, no, Nick, actually, I did want to talk to you about drafting.”

  “What about it? Hey, you came to the right place. Ask away.”

  Jillian briefly relates what Jago had said earlier. How drafting will help all the cyclists (except her, of course) by improving their times and conserving their energy. How they will be much fresher at the start of the run leg. How the Russians will work as a team to draft each other throughout the bicycle leg. “Does any of that make sense?” She hopes that he’ll say no, don’t be silly, you’ve got nothing to worry about. But just recounting it makes it all sound so sensible. She has a sick, sinking feeling that he’ll tell her that Jago was right.

  And he does. “Well, sure,” he says, sounding puzzled. “Hey, that’s the way it’s done. Everybody knows that.”

  “How much difference will it make, time-wise? I mean, how much faster could you do the bike leg with drafting than you could do it without?”

  “Um… gee, let’s see.” He sounds thoughtful. “How long is the bike leg, a hundred and twenty miles?”

  “A hundred and twelve.” Close enough.

  “So you mean, like, if all of three of the Ruskies come out of the water at the same time and they draft each other through the bike leg, how much faster could they finish than if they didn’t draft?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What kind of time do you usually do the bike leg?” Now that the discussion has shifted to his area of expertise, he sounds more professional, which she appreciates. And he’s stopped saying “hey” at the start of each sentence, which is especially welcome.

  “I usually do the bike in about four thirty. Most of the other women do about five hours, maybe five fifteen,” she says, trying not to sound like she’s bragging, but, in fact, she is proud of her cycling, especially since it’s something that she’s taken up relatively recently.

  “Well, if the rest of them are drafting and you’re not,” he says, carefully, “I’d say that you’re all about even now.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Jillian is stunned. She expected him to say something like, well, maybe they’ll gain ten or fifteen minutes on you. “You mean, they could pick up, like, thirty or forty-five minutes? Is that possible?”

  “Or more, maybe, if they really know what they’re doing. If they train as a team. If they’ve got a coach who knows what he’s doing. I don’t see why not.”

  “But, Nick …”

  “But that’s not the worst part of it, babe. I mean, look at this way: If they ride as a pack, all three of them, and take turns in the lead, basically each of them is going to be coasting two-thirds of the time. Not exactly coasting, in the sense of not pumping the pedals, but not working real hard, either. You follow me?”

  “Yeah,” she sighs. She can see where this is going. “I’m afraid I do.”

  “Well, then I guess you know what comes next, right?”

  “Yeah.” It’s pretty obvious. Someone who has to ride hard for only one-third of the bicycle leg is going to be only one-third as tired as someone who hammers for the entire hundred and twelve miles.

  “But wait!” he says, in his best TV pitchman imitation. “There’s more!”

  “Oh, Nick,” she groans, “what are you trying to do to me?”

  “What they might do – what I’d do if I were them,” he says, “is to put somebody out font as a pacer. A rabbit. Maybe even two rabbits and just one real racer.”

  “I don’t get it.”

&n
bsp; “Well, think about it, Jill. They pick one girl – the best of ‘em – to try to win the race. The other two are really just out there for numero uno to draft off, comprende? So let’s say that they’re all three of them comparable swimmers, and they all come out of the water at about the same time. Then the two ringers take turns leading the way for the real McCoy, so she’s drafting all the way. The entire hundred and twenty miles.”

  “Hundred and twelve miles.”

  “Whatever. You get the picture. The real one’s gonna be as fresh as a goddamn daisy when she starts the run leg. Hell, she won’t even have worked up much of a sweat. And if you haven’t been doing any drafting, babe, she’s going to be light years ahead of you, to boot. So it’s going to be a real bitch for you to catch up.”

  Jillian is silent, lost in thought. This doesn’t sound good at all. No, it’s worse, it’s a nightmare. Is she going to… is she going to lose?

  Not possible, she thinks.

  I can’t lose.

  I won’t lose.

  “Jill? You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” Softly. Despondently.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to blow you away, babe.”

  “No, you did good, Nick.” She sighs. “Really, I appreciate you explaining it to me so… so vividly.”

  “But hey, lookit, there’s no reason why you can’t draft too, babe. I mean, you’re not going to find a couple of Americans to help you out like the Ruskies are gonna help each other. But you can still find plenty of people to draft off.”

  “Oh, Nick, you just don’t understand.” Suddenly it’s all so frustrating. They’ve gone and changed the rules right in the middle of the game. It’s just not fair. “I can’t swim to save my ass,” she says, disgusted with herself. “I’m always the last one out of the water. Always. There won’t be anybody around for me to draft.”