Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  But just think of the damage I could have done, Leida thinks wistfully, as she closes the flap of the seat pack, if only I could have had just a little more time.

  3.1.7: Dallas

  Now I remember why I always start at the back of the pack, Jillian thinks, as within the space of two seconds she’s kicked in the shoulder and a flying elbow hits her squarely in the jaw.

  I was crazy to think that I could keep up with these girls.

  In her very first triathlon, Jillian had pushed her way to the front of the pack as it stood on the shore, waiting for the starting gun. This is self-seeded, a surprised competitor had explained patiently to her. The faster swimmers get up front, and the slower swimmers hang out at the rear of the pack so they won’t get in anyone’s way.

  I can keep up, Jillian had said, smugly. Although she knew that might not have been entirely true, she had a nagging feeling that starting at the very back of the pack – which was probably where she belonged – would put her at some kind of disadvantage before the race had even started.

  Nobody had argued with her, possibly because they were intimidated by her reputation from the marathon. But as soon as they all ran into the water that day and began to swim, she immediately realized the extent of her mistake, as the faster swimmers clawed their way past her with flying arms and legs. It felt like some of them swam right over her.

  Never again, she had sworn, even as she fumed and sputtered and watched the rest of the swimmers pull away from her. From now on, I’ll start at the back of the pack, where I belong.

  And ever since that first race, until today, that’s exactly what she had done. But this morning she woke up feeling strong and confident, and she was determined to show off her new swimming prowess to her peers. Boy, will they be surprised! she had thought, with satisfaction. Maybe I haven’t improved enough to actually win the swim leg, but I’ll bet that I can keep up. I’ll probably finish somewhere in the middle of the pack.

  So with Sunshine in tow, she had pushed her way up to the front of the group that stood on the shore of White Rock Lake.

  “Are you lost?” Carla jeered. “I know why Sunshine’s up here, but you must be out of your mind, Jill.”

  Jillian had shot her a hot glance, but had said nothing.

  “Well, just make sure that you don’t get in my way,” Carla sniffed, and moved as far away from Jillian as she could.

  You’ll see, Jillian had thought.

  I’ll show you all.

  But now, just a few minutes into the swim, Jillian already realizes that she’s made a huge mistake. Certainly her swimming has improved. But she’s in the company of world-class swimmers, and she’s simply out of her league. If she had started in her usual spot at the back of the pack, perhaps she could have used her new skills to keep up with the group for a longer distance, instead of wasting energy fighting through a morass of struggling bodies. Maybe she could have finished the swim in a better position – and in better condition – than she usually did.

  But now, all that’s really happening is that she’s getting beaten up.

  3.1.8: Dallas

  “…and turning to the women’s race, Sunshine O’Malley is still out in front, and seems, in fact, to be pulling away. Marty, our viewers may know by now that Sunshine is the daughter of Corinne McVeigh, the same Corinne McVeigh who won all those gold medals in Olympic swimming. If my memory serves me correctly, I think that she won three gold medals? Or maybe four?

  “But the point is, she certainly seems to have inherited her mother’s swimming ability. This is only her second triathlon, and she’s built up a considerable lead as she nears the turnaround buoy at the one-point-two-mile marker. And we understand that a few weeks ago, at a triathlon in Boston – the first triathlon she ever entered, by the way – she beat everybody out of the water, men and women. Nobody seems to know that much about her, but at least in the swim leg, Sunshine O’Malley has established herself as a force to be reckoned with…

  “That’s exactly right, Marty, thanks for reminding me – her father is indeed none other than Roger O’Malley, who our viewers may remember as a silver medalist in one of the bicycle events at those same Olympic games where Corinne McVeigh swam her way into so many of our hearts. In fact, they were married during the games, the ceremony was actually held in the Olympic stadium and broadcast, live, back home to the States. We’re trying to round up some footage on that, and if we come up with it, we’ll share it with you folks at home later in the race. But the point that I’m trying to make is that if Sunshine O’Malley has inherited her father’s biking skills to the same extent that she’s obviously inherited her mother’s swimming ability, she’s going to be a very real threat to…

  “I’m sorry, Marty, you’re going to have to ask that again. As you can probably hear, there’s a real party atmosphere developing down here by the transition area, and sometimes it’s difficult to hear you over the crowd. I’m sure it’s a lot quieter in the booth where you are, Marty, but I’ve got to tell you, I think you’re missing all of the…

  “Okay, Marty, I got it that time. Let me check real quick with our spotter, Michelle Stackhouse. Michelle, is Jill Kendal still… Yes, Marty, Michelle confirms that Jill Kendal, the heavy pre-race favorite, is still in very last place as they… Do you have a shot of her? Good, good, so you folks at home can probably see the situation better than I can from the shore. I understand that she’s at least a few lengths behind the closest…

  “No, Marty, actually, I was discussing that with Michelle a few minutes ago, and she tells me that Jill Kendal is not a strong swimmer, and that the fact that she’s in last place at this time is not unusual. But she’s very strong on the bike. And, as you might imagine with her gold-medal background in the marathon, she’s nothing short of spectacular on the run. I’ll keep up with her progress for you and the folks at home, Marty, and I’ll let you know if there’s any…

  “Okay, right now, I think we’re going to cut over to Roland Astarti, who has some information about a new development in the men’s race. Not yet? Okay, Marty, well, while we try once more to make that connection, let me take a minute to do this… Chip, swing the camera around to Michelle… that’s good…

  “Folks, the lady staring out over White Rock Lake through the high-powered binoculars is Michelle Stackhouse, who’s acting as our spotter in the women’s race today. I’m sure that she’d much rather be out there on the racecourse, but a knee injury forced her to retire from the sport a few years ago, just when she was at the peak of her form. However, her brother, Jason Stackhouse, is very much in the race today. And the word that I just now received over the headphones is that Jason Stackhouse has just passed Scott Marcus on the bicycle leg and has assumed the lead in the men’s race.

  “So, Marty, if we’re ready to cut over to Roland and the men’s race now, I’ll stroll on over to Michelle and tell her the good news…”

  3.1.9: Dallas

  Once she gets over the initial disappointment at not being able to keep up with the pack, Jillian is actually pleased with her performance in the water.

  The weeks of intensive practice have paid off. In spite of being in last place as she rounds the half-way buoy, she’s considerably closer to the rest of the pack than she usually is at this point in the race.

  And she feels much stronger and fresher than she usually does. Which, she realizes, will come in handy when she tries to make up the distance on the bike leg. Especially with everyone else conserving their strength by drafting like crazy.

  From somewhere out on the lake she hears the dull whine of a motor. There aren’t supposed to be any boats on the lake until we’re all out of the water, Jillian thinks; some asshole jumped the gun. And a few minutes later, just as she turns her head to the right to suck in a lungful of air, the wake of the boat reaches her in short, choppy waves.

  She sputters through a mouthful of brackish White Rock Lake water. Treading water for a few seconds, she shakes her head sharply in annoya
nce, then she quickly resumes swimming toward the shore. For several strokes, she breathes to her left side. It feels strange, but not entirely uncomfortable. Her bilateral-breathing practice has paid off after all.

  Today, Jillian decides, as a fresh surge of confidence shoots through her, today is going to be a good day.

  3.1.10: Dallas

  “Here she comes,” the loudspeakers boom. “The first woman will be out of the water in just a few seconds. Let’s give her our support as she comes up into the transition area!”

  People are already shouting and clapping as the solitary swimmer approaches the landing, her bright orange cap bobbing as she churns through the water with powerful strokes. “Come on, Sunshine!” someone shouts, and then the chant begins – “Sunshine, Sunshine” – first from a few people over by the concession stand, and then it reverberates like a wave through a packed stadium – “Sunshine! Sunshine!” – until it sounds like the entire crowd is rocking in unison – “SUNSHINE! SUNSHINE! SUNSHINE!”

  She steps out of the water. The chant dissolves into applause and shouts. Reaching for the steadying hand of a race volunteer, she looks slightly bewildered, as if she can’t quite understand what all the fuss is about. She pulls off her bathing cap and shakes her head to clear it. Water from her flying red hair drenches the surprised volunteer.

  Sunshine’s hand flies to her mouth in dismay as she realizes what she’s done. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says to the astonished volunteer, who reassures her that it’s okay and points her in the direction of the women’s changing room.

  Sunshine first starts to walk toward the wooden structure, then she breaks into a comfortable trot as her land legs begin to return. I’m supposed to hurry through the transition area, she reminds herself, although it feels so unnatural. It makes sense to swim, bike, and run as fast as you can; her parents taught her the thrill of athletic performance at an early age. But hurrying to change your clothes? As if it was some kind of athletic event in its own right? How silly.

  She jogs into the changing pavilion. Those showers look awfully tempting, but that’s not really necessary, she thinks, I’m just going to get all sweaty again, anyway. So she continues on to the neat rows of sports bags, scanning them quickly until she finds the one with the number 91. She quickly wriggles out of her swimsuit, perfunctorily pats herself dry, spreads a couple of quick dabs of Vaseline on her upper thighs, steps into her prized new running outfit, quickly slides into her socks, laces up her shoes, slips on her sunglasses, straps on her helmet, and steps out into the sunlight…

  Where she is greeted by yet another resounding cheer. No other woman swimmer has yet arrived to divert the concentration of the crowd, so their entire attention has been focused on the door to the changing pavilion as they’ve been waiting for Sunshine to emerge. The crowd had begun to buzz after a minute or two – What’s taking her so long? Is something wrong? – so the tension has been mounting and they’re eager to let loose when Sunshine finally steps out of the pavilion, shielding her eyes from the bright light, and again looking somewhat disoriented.

  “That way.” One of the volunteers gestures helpfully toward the bicycles. Sunshine turns and trots over to the rack, pulls out her bike, and jogs alongside it until she crosses the mount line. Then she swings her leg over the seat and crossbar, and she’s on her way.

  She shifts up through the gears, establishes a pedaling rhythm, screens the crowd noise out of her mind, and sets her focus on the road in front of her.

  But one distracting thought keeps pushing its way into her mind, and she tries to push it right back out, but then she decides that maybe it’s okay to let this particular thought bounce around in her head for a while:

  Wow, this is fun!

  3.1.11: Royse City

  “Basically, the women have settled down into a strategic race, Marty.”

  Jeff Grimsley takes a deep breath and hopes that his discomfort can’t be heard over the microphone. Luckily, the camera is pointed in the other direction. He has a feeling that his face must be decidedly green, although Michelle and Leida keep reassuring him that he looks fine.

  “You folks at home are looking at Sunshine O’Malley, who has maintained her lead with a furious pace throughout the bicycle leg. In fact, Marty, I think that she may actually be widening her lead over the pack of women that formed pretty early on. They appear to be – what would you say, Marty? Four, five miles behind her?”

  He sucks in another shot of oxygen through clenched teeth as Marty momentarily switches the feed to a drone shot and gives a brief commentary of his own. Then the truck hits yet another bump and lurches wildly. Jeff groans in dismay. If I could just turn around and face forward for a few minutes, he thinks, maybe I’d be okay. But if I have to keep looking backward out of the tailgate of this rattly old pickup, I’m going to toss my cookies, right here on national TV.

  And the worst part of it is that the women not only don’t seem to mind the ride, they actually seem to be enjoying themselves. At first, Michelle seemed a little put out when Leida Andersen hopped into the ESPN truck as it left the transition area, and Jeff guessed that there was some history between them that he didn’t know about. But Leida’s aggressive friendliness quickly overcame Michelle’s wariness, and now they sit chattering behind him, exchanging information about the race and the racers, waving to the spectators, having a gay old time, while he tries to maintain the last shred of his professionalism – and hold down his lunch – as they bounce along the bumpy road in the already oppressive heat of the late-morning Texas sun.

  “That’s right, Marty,” Jeff says, as Marty throws the commentary back to him, much too soon. “It hasn’t turned out anything like we expected. Instead of taking advantage of the new drafting rule to speed up the race, the women have formed a large pack of about – how many are there now, Marty? A dozen or so?”

  Another deep breath. Every opportunity is welcome, even if it’s for only a few seconds. He closes his eyes, but that makes his stomach churn even more, so he opens them again – and there she is, like she’s been for the last eighty miles, hunched over her handlebars, pedaling with a steady, unrelenting motion that’s both fluid and awkward at the same time, seemingly immersed in a strange, ethereal calm as she glides over the Texas plain, her tires spinning round and round and round…

  Look away. Look at the tailgate. Look at anything other than those damn tires, spinning and spinning…

  Another deep breath.

  “That’s a good question, Marty, and it’s really hard to say whether Sunshine O’Malley realizes just how far ahead of everyone she really is. I don’t think she’d be pedaling so hard if she did. Or maybe she’s trying to build up a lead for the run, which is reportedly her weakest leg.

  “And here’s something else to think about, Marty: The slow pace – well, maybe not slow, but slower than expected – may be working to the advantage of Jill Kendal, who was the last woman out of the water, and who’s been playing catch-up ever since. You know, while the other women are bunched together, playing cat-and-mouse, each of them waiting for the other to make a move, to break away… all that time, Jill Kendal has been steadily gaining on the pack. And once she catches up to them, Marty – if her past perf…”

  But the folks at home never get to learn his opinion of what Jillian might do once she catches up to the pack, because at that exact moment, right in the middle of a word, the truck hits a dip in the road, and for a sickening instant Jeff feels like he’s suspended in mid-air. His stomach flips, and he just barely has time to lean over the tailgate. To the surprise of his companions, and to the dismay of the oncoming cyclists – and to the disgust of the enthusiastic crowd that has gathered at the intersection of Erby Campbell Boulevard, where a state trooper holds up his hand to defend the triathletes from cross-traffic – Jeff Grimsley heaves a colorful stream that splatters all over the double yellow line that runs down the middle of Texas state highway 66.

  3.1.12: Garland

  My Go
d, Jillian thinks, as she banks into a right-angle turn and starts to head south on East Centerville Road, there must be fifteen of them, all bunched up together. Like a flock of sheep.

  Well, you better watch out, little lambs. Here comes the big bad wolf.

  She glances at her watch. Wow, she thinks, I’m four hours into the bike leg, and there’s still this many of them ahead of me. Good thing that they’re all bunched up together like this, just waiting for me to pick them all off at the same time.

  How very thoughtful of them.

  3.1.13: Garland

  “This is getting very interesting,” Michelle says into the headset she’s taken from Jeff Grimsley, who lies huddled in a back corner of the bed of the pickup, moaning softly. “We’ve dropped back to the large pack of women that’s gathered here about, oh, four or five miles behind Sunshine O’Malley. And Jill Kendal just caught up to the pack, Marty, and suddenly, they all took off like a bunch of jackrabbits. If she expected to just fly by them, she’s…”

  “Where is she?” Leida asks, trying to peer through the mass of bicycles that seems intent on catching up to the truck. In fact, their initial burst of speed when Jillian joined the group caught the driver by surprise, and a few of the lead bikes almost climbed up their tailpipe. “I can’t pick her out.”

  It’s as if the pack has sensed that Jillian Kendal is among them. Even as she pulled up to the rear of the group, planning to pace herself with them for a few minutes to catch her breath, it seemed that at that very instant the women in the lead of the pack surged forward, as if the pack were somehow a living entity and had sensed the danger nipping at its heels.

  “She’s about two-thirds of the way back, maybe a little more,” Michelle says, pointing. “See her? The bright yellow bike, you can’t miss it… Oh, I’m sorry Marty,” she adds, embarrassed. “I’m talking to Leida Andersen, a PBS reporter who’s with me in the back of the ESPN truck, and I guess I forgot that I was on the air!” She laughs. “You’ll have to bear with me, Marty, this is all new to me.”