Never Too Late (Brier Hospital)

by Larence Gold

  Mitch walked over and placed his hand on Hunter’s shoulder. “Don’t let it go so far again. This is training and you shouldn’t let it get so bad. Stop. Take a break. Take some water.”

  Hunter turned to Izzy. “Look at her. It’s a walk in the park.”

  “Don’t compare yourself to Izzy. Each of you is unique.”

  “But, she’s sixty—sixty!”

  “You’re right. Izzy is a phenom, but training with her may be the best opportunity you’ll ever have to improve your performance.”

  “Okay, but…”

  “No buts,” Mitch said. “Did you complete your prep?”

  “Probably could have taken more water and carbs this morning.”

  Mitch reddened. “If I didn’t think you have world-class potential, I’d have sent you packing a long time ago. This is no game, Hunter. If you’re looking to screw up your training, you’re going about it in exactly the right way.”

  The chauffeur had parked the Blake limousine outside Hunter’s apartment. He stood by its side while Cedric Blake waited at her door for her arrival.

  “Daddy, it’s so good to see you,” she squealed.

  After they stepped inside, Hunter asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Just wanted to see how my daughter was doing.”

  “Marathon training is a lot rougher than I imagined.”

  She described the workouts and her relationship with Mitch and Izzy. “There’s something about her that rubs me the wrong way.”

  “It’s a class difference,” Cedric said. “We Blakes just have to get used to dealing with the lower classes.” He paused. “We have the obligations of our stature. It’s about time that you accepted your role as a Blake.”

  “Daddy, I just don’t think that way, and neither do most of my friends.”

  “You’ll grow up. If you’re not happy with Silverman, I can make inquiries. We’re fortunate enough that you don’t need to accept a second rate coach.”

  “You’re way off there,” Hunter said, “Mitch is simply the best. Ask anyone.”

  “Perhaps.” Cedric said. “I think it’s time for me to talk with the man.”

  “Please don’t, Daddy,” Hunter pleaded. “I’m finally working things out with Mitch and with Izzy.”

  “Of course, darling—whatever you say.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mitch Silverman was nodding off at his desk after spending the afternoon with paperwork. The clock showed 6:30 p.m. A tap on the door drew his attention at once. “Yes, come in.”

  A small man in a dark suit and a chauffeur’s hat stuck his head in. He spoke with a soft Cockney accent. “If you have a moment, sir, Mr. Blake would like a word with you.”

  “Mr. Blake?”

  The chauffeur looked questioningly at Mitch. “Mr. Cedric Blake…of the Hillsborough Blakes.”

  Mitch slapped his forehead and smiled. “Of course. The Hillsborough Blakes, Hunter’s father. Please show him in.”

  The chauffeur pulled the door open and Cedric Blake, tall, thin, and imperious, sauntered in wearing a dark, pinstriped Armani suit. He turned to the chauffeur. “Benson, wait in the car.” He smiled broadly at Mitch through perfect bright-white veneered teeth and then strolled the room examining Mitch’s awards, and published articles. He then moved toward Mitch and grasped his hand vigorously. “So glad to meet you, my good man. I’ve heard a great deal about you, sir.”

  “And I’ve heard much about you, too, Mr. Blake.”

  “Please call me Jerry.”

  “Jerry?”

  “It’s a long story not worth telling.”

  Mitch indicated the seat before his desk and then sat back in his office chair. “So, how can I help you, Jerry?”

  “I had my people check you out and you’ll be glad to know that you came out with flying colors. Hunter is lucky to be under your tutelage—a man of your experience and accomplishments.”

  “Thank you, Jerry. I’m glad that I checked out well,” he said facetiously. “Hunter’s making progress.”

  “May I ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course.”

  Jerry pulled out his iPhone and scrolled to his notes. “First, how far do you think Hunter can go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jerry sat straight upright. “What do you mean, you don’t know’?

  “You want to know if Hunter can reach the world-class level and compete in our most arduous races including the Olympics?”

  “Yes. That’s fair enough.”

  “Excuse me, Jerry, if I stray too far, but you seem an accomplished, strong-willed man who may believe that his daughter can succeed at anything if she just works hard enough.” Mitch paused.

  Jerry peered at Mitch. “But you do think she has the talent.”

  “Let me finish. “Even after all these years, a coin toss may be the best answer to those questions. Athletes with modest talents have exceeded all expectations while many, most gifted, have flamed out. It’s a crapshoot. If you or your daughter need a guarantee, take her home now and save the time, aggravation, frustration, and money.”

  “What about this Izzy person? How can a young athlete train with a woman of 60?”

  “What has Hunter told you about this Izzy person?”

  Jerry shook his head. “Why virtually nothing except that it’s quite obvious that she dislikes her.”

  “I’m glad that she refused to say more. It’s a sign of humility. That doesn’t come easy for Hunter.”

  “We Blakes can do humility when necessary.” He paused. “What can you tell me about Izzy.”

  “Izzy is Dr. Isabel Kramer. She teaches psychology at UC Berkeley.”

  “Charming—quaint, but I don’t want Hunter being held back by a woman old enough to be her mother.”

  Mitch flushed and then laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Mitch.

  Suddenly serious, Mitch continued. “Take this to the bank, Jerry. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like Izzy Kramer. If Hunter’s on the right side of the bell curve in athletic performance, Izzy’s so far to the right that she can’t see the curve anymore. Moreover, she has the work ethic, devotion, and maturity that Hunter lacks. Izzy’s an inspiration to all who know her. If I could clone her, I’d open training programs all over the country.”

  Jerry sat in silence for a moment. “Head to head, this senior citizen outruns Hunter?”

  “Regularly, but how far Izzy can go, and will age ultimately rear its ugly head—who knows. For now, Izzy provides motivation for Hunter. It’s irreplaceable. Imagine being outrun by your grandmother?”

  “I know Hunter. She can’t be taking this well.”

  “I’m sorry, Jerry, but I’ll tell you exactly what I told Hunter. Get over it or find a new coach.” Mitch paused and stared at Jerry. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. I think Hunter can go a long way.”

  Jerry stood. “Thank you Mitch for the frank discussion. You’ve given me much to consider. I’m a man of considerable achievements and if I can be of service to you, please let me know.”

  As Jerry walked from Mitch’s door, he passed Izzy and nodded politely.

  Izzy entered the office and smiled at Mitch. “Mortician’s convention or somebody died?”

  Mitch stood and shook his head. “A Hillsborough Blake, second generation, best known as ‘Daddy.’”

  “And what did Daddy want?”

  “Nothing much, only an Olympic Marathon Gold Medal.”

  Izzy smiled. “Hell, that’ll be a cinch.”

  “It won’t surprise you to hear that the Hillsborough Blakes are concerned about you training with their golden girl. I reassured them.”

  Izzy glared at Mitch. “Do me a big favor and don’t do that again. I’m not a pacesetter for Hunter or anyone else. My natural tendency to support others works in psychiatry, but once the race starts, neither Hunter nor anyone else should stand in my way.”

  Mitch stood, took
two steps back feigning fear, and then made the sign of the cross.

  Izzy looked up and laughed. “Mitch, you’re Jewish.”

  “You can never tell when a little extra might help.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mitch, Izzy, and Hunter were relaxing at Starbucks after a particularly brutal training session that morning. Izzy had a double cappuccino while Hunter was nursing an iced coffee drink and nodding off, yet trying unsuccessfully to hide her fatigue.

  “It’s okay, Hunter,” Izzy said. “After a session like that, sleep’s the first thing that runners seek.”

  Hunter stared at Izzy and then turned to Mitch. “She looks like she’s been out for a stroll.”

  Izzy smiled. “Hardly. It’s just that at my age the contrast isn’t as dramatic. I tend to look tired all the time anyway.”

  “You’re both doing great,” Mitch said, “Here’s my plan. I promise you that it isn’t going to be easy. In mid-January, we’ll do the Redding Marathon and follow that in early March with the Napa Valley Marathon. You need to have qualifying times in one of them if you’re going to get into the April Boston Marathon.”

  The next day was warm, bright, and breezy as Izzy and Hunter were nearing the end of their long training run. They turned left off San Pablo Dam Road onto Wildcat Canyon Road that ascended to Inspiration Point in Tilden Park. The asphalt double-laned road radiated intense heat, but Izzy ignored it for the spectacular view of the San Pablo Dam below. Izzy was running well, and Hunter, for the first time in a while, was keeping up without difficulty. When they reached the halfway point in the ascent, Izzy noticed an unfamiliar tingling in her legs. She tried to ignore it, but it got progressively worse and slowed her down.

  Hunter looked at Izzy with curiosity and then ran ahead, looking back on occasion and smiling.

  Although Izzy had slowed, the discomfort persisted and then suddenly her legs felt numb.

  What’s wrong with me, she thought? Time to toughen up.

  Izzy slowed further and suddenly her legs were on fire with intense cramping pain forcing her to stop at the road’s edge.

  Hunter looked back for a moment, smiled again, and then jogged away up the hill.

  Izzy collapsed onto the berm. She was dizzy and weak, as if she were intoxicated. She massaged her aching, cramping legs as tears ran down her cheeks.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mitch’s Jeep pulled up alongside. “We’re having a problem, Izzy?”

  “You could say that. Tingling then numbness, and then intense, fiery muscle cramps.” She paused. “Shit, they hurt.”

  Mitch reached into Jeep’s rear seat and extracted a thin thermos. He opened the lid and handed it to Izzy. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just drink it, damn it.”

  Izzy took a swallow of the salty-sweet drink and then took several more. In minutes, the pain was gone.

  Izzy shook her head. “God! What was that?”

  Mitch smiled. “Finally, Izzy, welcome to the human race. You managed to hit the wall.”

  “Hit the wall? I thought that was a metaphor.”

  “It is a metaphor, but it also means that you completely depleted your glycogen stores, and Izzy, I’m betting that you know why.”

  Izzy wiped her tears away and sat with her head down. “I was stupid and arrogant. I’m supposed to be beyond that. I’m the mature one who always has it together.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s happened to the best, yours truly, included. It may be a blessing in disguise.”

  “Blessing?”

  “I’ve been concerned about your weight. Don’t worry, you won’t be getting fat, but maybe Ross is entitled to a few more curves. Secondly, you won’t ever again forget to load up your carbs before a race or intense training.”

  “Believe me, I won’t forget.”

  Izzy stared at Mitch for a long moment. “If gaining some weight is going to compromise my performance, I’m not sure that I’ll go for that.”

  Mitch laughed. “If you think that I don’t understand your obsessive drive to succeed, give me a break. Trust me, you’ll do better with a little more meat on that tortured frame.”

  “Okay…okay. Moreover, I’m impressed that you used the word, obsessive. I must be teaching you something.”

  “You’re kidding, Izzy. Obsession ranks high in every competitive runner, but you may be heading for maniacal. I’d watch it.”

  Izzy stood. “Okay, point taken.” She paused. “I do need to thank Hunter for getting you here.”

  “That’s a laugh. If I hadn’t asked her directly, you’d still be waiting. That girl is a piece of work.”

  Izzy stared at Mitch. “She has her problems…”

  “Stop it, Izzy. Get real. Let’s skip the PC bullshit. The girl’s one spoiled rotten bitch.”

  Izzy managed a thin smile and shook her head. “I’m not comfortable with those words, Mitch.”

  “You mean spoiled and rotten?”

  “Not funny, Mitch.”

  “That word’s appropriate and perfectly accurate?”

  “It’s an emotionally charged sexist word and an easy pejorative for those too lazy to be creative.” She paused. “And, Mitch, you won’t be using that word again in my presence, will you?”

  Mitch smiled. “No Ma’am.”

  When Izzy arrived home, Ross was sitting before his computer staring at the image of an elderly blond woman with short hair wearing a running outfit.

  She wrapped her arms around him from the rear and squeezed. “So, sweetie, you’re into senior porn.”

  He smiled and pointed at the screen. “Meet Gladys Burrell, a 92-year-old Brit. She set the record for oldest female marathoner when she completed the Honolulu in 2010. She’s inspirational.”

  When Izzy collapsed into the La-Z-Boy chair, Ross stared at her. “Something’s wrong? What is it?”

  “I hit the wall today,” she said. “It was awful, and it shook me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “What do you think?”

  Izzy looked into Ross’s eyes and then laughed. “You’re good, really good. If I ever need shrinking, you’re my man.”

  “I’ll be your man for anything but that.”

  “Anyway, I’m going to put on a few pounds and I’m assigning you as the carb police. Don’t let me run again without a hearty carbohydrate meal.”

  Ross smiled. “C’mon, let’s take a ride.”

  “Okay. Where to?”

  “Let’s head for Sam’s Club and that regiment-size bag of Oreos.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A week later, Izzy met Jodie after work. They sat under the oak trees just west of the Valley Life Science Building watching the tennis players.

  “How’s the training going?”

  “It’s going. Hard work and frustration.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Izzy we love.”

  “My one regret in life, Jodie, is that I’m not someone else.”

  “Heard that one before, Woody Allen, right?”

  “Good memory.”

  “Being someone else is part of his self-effacing humor,” Jodie said. “Coming from you, it sounds strange. You have a life that would make anyone envious.”

  Izzy looked up at the canopy. “I know, but my ‘what ifs’ still torment me.”

  “The word, torment is a bit over the top, isn’t it?”

  “Okay, troubled or bothered,” Izzy said. “Does that change anything?

  Jodie shook her head. “No, but everyone has his or her ‘what ifs.’”

  “In my practice,” Izzy said, “I’ve learned that regrets are self-indulgent fantasies and they can become dangerous to one’s psyche. Regrets, like preoccupations, were part of what we used to call neuroses that is until the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM) declared that we couldn’t call anyone neurotic. That used to be my favorite diagnosis.”

  “So then, you can’t be neurotic, yet…
”

  “You’re right,” Izzy said. “A rose by any other name… It’s especially disheartening to know how little control I have over my emotions. Regrets and my mother. I should have been able to get past them both.”

  “I’m guessing that, for the most part, you have,” Jodie said. “You just haven’t stopped ruminating about it.”

  “You sound like Ross. You haven’t been talking to him behind my back, have you?”

  “Right.” Jodie laughed. “And if two people who love you come to the same conclusion independently, maybe you should listen.”

  “It’s not that I don’t understand, I just can’t get over it.”

  Jodie took Izzy’s hand. “Then, like everyone else, you’ll learn to live with it.”

  “Switching subjects,” Izzy said, “I’ve reached a plateau in my training. I need to break through and move forward, but I can’t. Any suggestions from the sports performance program?”

  “Nothing that won’t get you banned from competition or put both of us in jail.”

  “Can you measure my physiological performance?”

  “Of course. We do it all the time. It gives us a baseline for everything we do. Since we work with humans and not rats, we can’t do double blind studies. Therefore, each athlete serves as his or her own control, you know, performance before and after.”

  “Put me through the tests, Jodie. I want to know.”

  A week later, Izzy walked out from the dressing room at the sports physiology laboratory at the Institute of Cognitive and Brain Science, wearing her running outfit.

  Jodie smiled at Izzy. “Looking good. I want you to meet Dr. David Rice, our chief exercise physiologist.”

  David was in his thirties. He was tall, deeply tanned, and runner-gaunt. “Welcome, Dr. Kramer. Jodie talked us into adding your data to one of our studies on athletes.”

  “It’s Izzy, please, and thanks for allowing me to participate.” She paused. “You look like a long distance runner, are you?”

  David smiled. “No, it’s just the Rice family genes. It’s great. I can look this way without all the work.”

  David adjusted the treadmill and the face mask. “We really didn’t need to be talked into this, Izzy. We’re interested in your performance. You’re a bit of a legend around here, and,” he paused, “an inspiration, too. If we can figure you out, maybe we can both make a few bucks out of this.”