by Larence Gold
Izzy frowned.
“He’s only kidding, Izzy,” Jodie said. “David’s the paradigm of the poor, but dedicated, scientist.”
David placed the mask on Izzy and attached her wire leads to the analyzer. “I’ll run you through six stages from seven miles per hour all the way up to nine and a half miles per hour in stage six, if you last that long. At the end of each stage, Jodie here will stick your finger for a blood lactate level to see how hard your cells are working. Got it?”
Izzy smiled. “Let’s go.”
David pushed the start button and the belt slowly increased to seven mph. “Stage one, Izzy.”
After several minutes, Jodie took Izzy’s hand and stuck it for blood.
“Stage two,” David said, “seven and a half mph.”
By stage four at nine mph, Jodie studied the machine graphs. “Her pulse is up to 176 beats per minute. Are you okay, Izzy?”
“I’m fine. When does it get tough?”
Following stage six at nine and a half mph, Izzy’s pulse remained stable at 176 beats per minute.
“That’s it,” David said.
As Izzy toweled off the sweat and sipped ice water, David, Jodie, and several other techs stood around the analyzer, pointing, gesturing, and turning repeatedly to stare at Izzy.
Jodie finished talking with them and came over to Izzy.
Izzy looked up. “How did I do?”
“You were fantastic. You have the physiology of a trained runner in her twenties. David wants to check your birth certificate and then move you into his lab so he can do further studies.”
“Tell him thanks, but no thanks. I still have a life. If he’s nice to me, I’ll go along with more testing, especially if he has any tricks to improve my performance.”
“If your performance improves further,” Jodie said, “they’re going to need new equipment to measure it.”
When David walked over, Izzy smiled. “Can I have a copy of my results?”
David shook his head. “We can’t release experimental data until the study’s finished.”
“I just want it over my mantelpiece, and posted on Facebook.”
David smiled. “You’re kidding.”
“Of course I’m kidding. You can be obsessive, without being nuts.”
Jodie stared at Izzy. “You’re sure?”
“Well, maybe I am a little nuts.”
Chapter Sixteen
Redding Marathon (January)
Izzy, Ross, and Jennifer checked into two rooms in the tiny Shasta Dam Motel just off I-5.
Izzy surveyed the room. “Well, at least it’s clean and near the starting point.”
“Where’s Hunter staying?” Ross asked.
“You know the Hillsborough Blakes,” Izzy said. “I’m guessing that Daddy doesn’t have a cottage because he reserved a suite at the La Quinta Inn. No sacrifice is too great for them.”
They got up early for breakfast at a local Denny’s. Ross and Jennifer finished quickly and then sat in wonder as Izzy consumed two stacks of Chocolate Chip-In Pancakes. They chatted until Ross looked at his watch. “Time to go.”
Ross drove to the Shasta Dam Visitor Center and took the last available parking space before the police put up the barrier. The temperature was 50° and the forecast was for 62° max. The sky was clear and blue with a light breeze from the northeast.
Izzy wore her usual running outfit with a Blue and California-Gold Gore-Tex jacket. She stretched and jogged in place.
Hunter and her boyfriend, Ben Crocker, arrived with Mitch.
Mitch took Izzy and Hunter aside. “This course is a net downhill, so it will tempt you to rush through the first four miles. Don’t do it. You’re going to need your energy at the end if we’re to have qualifying times for the Boston Marathon. Several aid stations will have Gu Energy Gel, and Izzy, I recommend that you use it.” He paused. “No, I insist that you use it. We don’t want you to hit the wall. It’s a beautiful day and a great course. Do well, but enjoy the run, too.”
Just then, a group of fifteen seniors and several reporters wearing press passes approached Izzy.
Hunter smirked, grabbed Ben’s arm, and stalked away.
A young reporter pointed his camera at Izzy. “Is it okay if I take a few photos?”
“If you give me a second to freshen my lipstick.”
The reporter took several shots and then pointed to the group. “This is your fan club, Dr. Kramer.”
“Fan club? I don’t have a fan club.”
“Yes, you do,” the reporter said. “Don’t tell me you don’t know about your Facebook fan page?”
“You’re kidding.” She paused. “I’ll check it out.”
A woman in her fifties took Izzy’s hand. “You’re an inspiration to us.”
“It’s difficult to think of myself as inspirational, and it’s a bit embarrassing,” Izzy said. “Who could foresee this outcome when my daughter coerced me into running the Bay to Breakers, yet here I am.”
Izzy spent a few minutes with the group accepting their good wishes, signing marathon pamphlets, and finally, looking at her watch she said, “Thank you all. I’ll do the best I can.”
After the group walked away, Ross handed Izzy his pamphlet. “Can I have your autograph, too, Dr. Kramer?”
“The only thing I’m signing is my winner’s check.”
Ross laughed. “You’ll need to wait for the Boston or the New York Marathon. No prize money in Redding.”
Izzy paced at the starting line for the anticipated 8:00 a.m. gun and found herself more nervous as she compulsively stared at her watch. She nodded at Hunter, who stared back for a moment, and then turned away. Izzy went through her usual ritual of checking her parts and taking ten deep breaths.
Next thing, you know, she thought, I’ll be monitoring which side of the bed I step off and which foot to start each race. It’s nuts.
Finally, at 8:14 a.m., the blast sounded and the pack took off streaming down the first 1.5 miles to the dam.
Izzy held back as she crossed the dam’s paved road. On the other side, the pack slowed, and when the road turned down, runners started flying again. It took all of Izzy’s will not to take off after them. Soon she found herself on the Rail Trail with the beautiful Sacramento River on her left. Hunter was about a hundred yards ahead.
At Mile 4, she ran through the cool 1923 railroad tunnel and onto the stretch of rolling hills that broke up the flat trail. As she passed the first aid stations, she eyed the Gu on each table, but decided that it was too early to grab some.
Izzy enjoyed Miles 11 to 15, the race’s biggest uphill legs, and when she checked her time, she was ahead of schedule. She easily passed Hunter, who glared at her, picked up her pace for several miles, and then fell back.
By mile 16, her discomfort reminded her of a trip to the dentist for a root canal, but somehow within the next mile, she was again relaxed and comfortable.
As she passed runners of all ages, Izzy visualized the scene in slow motion, hearing the theme song from Chariots of Fire in her head.
When she reached the Sacramento River Trail bike path, she felt the warm sun and smiled as she looked at the dark emerald river to her left.
At Mile 22, she was on her runner’s high and had to force herself to stop and drink a bottle of Espresso Love Gu. She stared ahead. Mitch was at the roadside, smiling and giving her two thumbs up.
When Izzy reached the steel, glass, and cable-stayed Sundial Bridge, she looked back with surprise. Hunter and the nearest runners were at least a half-mile behind. Most runners were showing the sign of stress, grimacing, holding their mouths open, and several gasping for air. She smiled inwardly and sprinted across the bridge to the finish line where the winners were pacing and trying to catch their breaths.
Izzy felt energized as she wandered through the crowded plaza searching for a familiar face. A moment later, Ross, Jennifer, and Mitch came together with her in a group hug.
Izzy turned to Mitch. “How did I
do? Did I make the qualifying time for the Boston Marathon?”
Mitch turned away and studied his feet. “Forget qualifying times, Izzy…”
Izzy felt a weakness in her stomach. “Forget qualifying times—are you out of your mind?”
She stared at Mitch as Ross and Jennifer smiled.
“If you let me finish. You destroyed the qualifying times for women of all ages and, believe it or not, you beat the qualifying time for women 60 to 64 by a full 68 minutes.”
Izzy shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”
“If you don’t believe that, you’d better take a seat.”
Izzy sat on the bench with Ross and grasped his hand.
“Your time was only 22 minutes behind the women’s record for the Redding Marathon. If you’re not careful, they’re going to seed you in the Boston Marathon, in fact, it would surprise me if they didn’t seed you in all future marathons.”
Jennifer turned to Mitch. “Does this put Izzy in the elite runner category?”
“If I could define elite, I’d answer you, but for the moment, consider this; if Izzy registers for the Boston Marathon, she’s just a runner; but when marathon officials ask her to compete, she’s Elite.” Mitch turned to Izzy. “Don’t be surprised if that call comes.”
“How did Hunter do?” Izzy asked.
Mitch turned his head toward the plaza. Hunter was standing head down next to her father. She’d crossed her arms, hands gripping her triceps. Daddy’s face was red as he pointed an accusing finger at his daughter.
Mitch turned back to Izzy and Ross. “Thank God. She just made it at 3hours, 34 minutes. Think about how the prick would have responded if she didn’t qualify.”
Izzy turned to Ross. “Sad, isn’t it?”
Ross shook his head. “You’re too kind. It’s more than sad; it’s contemptible.”
Chapter Seventeen
By the next morning, the reality of Izzy’s success in the Redding Marathon had finally set in for her. She was sitting with Ross at the breakfast table.
“It’s amazing,” she said. “The race wasn’t especially difficult for me and yet, that was my finest run ever.”
Ross sipped his coffee. “That’s what they say about best ones, the Michael Jordans. They make it look easy.”
“Keep talking about me in those terms and I’ll eventually become a believer. Jordan and his class had this tremendous drive to win. I call it the testosterone effect. I’m likely missing that. I just want to do well and perform up to my capability.”
“So when they place the crown on your head, hand you your scepter and roses, and sing ‘Here she comes, Mrs. America’ you’ll bolt for the door.”
Izzy laughed. “I’ll deal with that when it happens.”
As Izzy locked her bicycle in the rack before Tolman Hall on the UC campus, passers-by waved and offered congratulations for her success in the Redding Marathon. She nodded her thanks, but blushed from all the attention and then shook her head in embarrassment at her unsophisticated reaction.
As Izzy approached her office, someone had posted The Daily Californian’s front page on her door. The newspaper had her faculty photograph and the headline: UC Professor breaks record in the Redding Marathon. She pulled down the page and scanned the article smiling as she read: As Professor Kramer crossed the finish line, her gray-haired fans greeted her with cheers.
When she entered, Connie, secretaries, and several teaching assistants stood and applauded.
Connie bowed in facetious praise. “We live in the glow of your ascendancy, oh mighty one.”
Izzy shook her head. “Keep it up, and you’ll spend the next month in the Bancroft Library caverns.”
Connie smiled. “Still can’t handle a compliment, Dr. Kramer?”
“I can deal with a few compliments, but this thing is getting out of hand.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, Doc. Take a look at your desk.”
When Izzy slid into her desk chair, her inbox overflowed with pink message slips from reporters, magazine editors, publicity firms, and the UC Berkeley public relations department.
“That’s nothing compared to the phone calls,” Connie said. “We may need a screener or you’re going to be paying me a lot more overtime.”
“Ignore it, Connie. My fifteen minutes of fame will soon pass.”
“Sure. It’ll pass when you stop competing. I suspect that you’re not yet ready to retire, but until then, I’m going to need help.”
“I’m sorry, Connie. Neither of us bargained for this.”
“It’s only going to get worse. You need to review those messages and pick a few, or the media monster will only get hungrier and more desperate.”
“I’ll make a few phone calls before my next session, but please hold off the rest.”
Izzy talked with several reporters and agreed to three interviews. She next called Lynda Levy at Marathoner Magazine.
“Thank you for returning my call, Dr. Kramer. I suspect you are, by now, getting more attention than you want.”
“You can say that. And Lynda, please call me Izzy.”
They chatted for fifteen minutes.
“My cross country coach tried to encourage me, but it never worked out”
“Why not,” Lynda asked.
“The late 60s weren’t that easy for girls. We’ve come a long way, thank God.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it for now, Lynda.”
“If you’re hiding something, Izzy, eventually it will come out, especially as your celebrity continues.”
“Well, Lynda. I guess that you’re right.” Izzy paused. “Can I count on your discretion?”
“Oh please, Izzy. Don’t jerk me around.”
“Okay, but I’m trusting you.” Izzy paused again. “I’m the great-granddaughter of the last Russian Tsar, Nicholas II.”
Lynda laughed uncontrollably. “I love it. So you’re the daughter of the Duchess Anastasia?”
“Come check the profile—can’t miss the resemblance.”
Lynda grinned. “Okay, you’ve had your fun, but I have work to do, Izzy.”
“There’s nothing more for anyone to know, Lynda, and frankly, pushing me too hard on nothing won’t do you any good, and it may piss off the KGB.”
“That’s what they all say when they’re trying to hide something.”
“We’re done, Lynda. I thought I knew you by reputation, but I can see that I was misinformed. Your columns are tough and often humorous. Nothing funny today.”
“I’m a reporter, Izzy, a good reporter with a curious mind. I get that public figures, and you’ve become one, always want to present themselves in the best light. My obligation to my readers is to get past the spin.”
“I don’t spin, Lynda. Perhaps, I’ve had enough for today.”
“I’m sorry, Izzy. In fact, I’ve been saying that a lot lately. Maybe I should tone it back.”
“Good idea.”
“Tell me about the Bay to Breakers.”
“Jennifer, my daughter, talked me into it almost as a lark. While the training was grim, I loved the running. Later, I joined the running club at UC Berkeley and then got Mitch Silverman to take me on.”
“It must have taken some persuasion to get Mitch on board. As far as I know, he deals only with young runners having world class potential. How did you do it?”
“Like most, he didn’t take me seriously until I challenged his manhood and we ran together. He’s a great coach and I’m lucky to have him training me.”
Lynda paused. “You must know that everyone’s speculating about how a sixty year old woman has achieved so much in so short a period of time.”
Izzy tensed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t considered performance enhancing drugs, Izzy. Every runner has at one time or another.”
“Only someone who doesn’t know me could make that suggestion.”
“Nobody knows you, Izzy.
The public only knows what the media says about you, and some in the media live to destroy.”
Izzy remained silent.
Lynda’s voice softened. “I’m not your enemy, Izzy, but you can’t afford to be naïve about such questions. Like it or not, in light of Lance Armstrong and others, it’s what people are thinking.”
“You’re giving me a headache, Lynda,” Izzy said. “I’m not responsible for what you or they do with their idle time.”
“You’re making a mistake. Work with me or things could get a lot worse.”
Izzy took a deep breath. “I’ll assume that’s not a threat, Lynda, and thank you for giving me much to consider. Maybe this whole marathon thing and everything that goes with it, really isn’t for me.”
“If you can be run off racing by benign questions like these,” Lynda said, “you’d best get out before the serious scrutiny begins. Not all reporters are as kind and gentle as I am.”
Chapter Eighteen
Izzy sat in session across from Roberta Fink, thirty-nine, an assistant professor in Mathematics. She was a fireplug with short spiky blonde hair. She wore a long sleeved shirt, buttoned to the neck, and neatly pressed Sears jeans. Roberta’s dour personality had Izzy checking her watch and counting down the minutes to the end of their sessions. She hated to respond to her own patient this way, and knew she’d be feeling guilty afterward.
After Roberta leaned back in her chair, she spread her legs, and stared at Izzy. “I’m so glad a megastar still has time for the little people.”
“Have I done something to offend you, Roberta?”
“Yes, you’re alive.”
“If you can be a little more specific,” Izzy said, “it might help.”
“That’s what I mean, Doc. Nothing fazes you. You’re always in control.”
“Pardon my French, Roberta, but you’re full of shit.”
Roberta struggled to suppress a small smile. “Mea culpa…mea culpa. I’m just in a bad mood.”