Never Too Late (Brier Hospital)

by Larence Gold

  “Well, Charlie, Izzy’s story was a dream come true for our magazine. It had every element that attracts the sports reader, an inspiring story of a woman, who, against all odds, struggled to reach the highest levels of athletic competition.” She discussed the early interviews, Izzy’s remarkable performances, and the unfounded speculations.

  “Before we get into that, Izzy,” Charlie said, “tell us a little about yourself and how you got into running the marathon.”

  Izzy quickly discussed her early life, the cross country running in high school, and her professional career as a psychiatrist and an educator.”

  “Who could have known what would happen after I agreed to run with my daughter, Jennifer, at the Bay to Breakers. At first, I detested the training, but once I got past the initial aches and pains, and became more comfortable, I recalled how much I had loved running in school. The Bay to Breakers was a revelation to me, and I decided to begin training seriously.”

  “Revelation is an interesting choice of words?” Charlie asked.

  “I agree with you,” Charlie, “but the word accurately expresses what I felt, then and what I still feel now. I don’t want to get metaphysical on you or your audience, but it feels like I was born to run. If I accept that, it’s easier to understand why I love it.”

  “Weren’t you concerned about running at your age?” Charlie asked.

  Izzy smiled. “What age?”

  “Charlie smiled and raised his hands in surrender. “Mea culpa. That was a politically incorrect question, if I ever heard one.”

  “Don’t,” Izzy smiled. “It’s the universal question and the gorilla in the room. Although outliers are a well-established phenomenon, people have a hard time understanding it. Superimpose that on a justifiably cynical society and soon people begin to think the worst.”

  Charlie turned to Lynda. “I understand that your first interview with Izzy didn’t go too well.”

  “You might say that, but her situation was so unusual, that nobody could believe it.”

  “Believe what?” Charlie asked.

  “That she’d done it all honestly.”

  “What is it about human nature,” Charlie asked “that seeks to destroy those, who by every measure, deserving acclaim?” He stared at Izzy. “Maybe, if you put on your psychiatrist hat, you can help us understand.”

  “Whenever I try to explain complicated human emotions in useful terms, the average person just doesn’t want to hear, and even those who are really interested, will nod off or conclude that it’s all crap.”

  “Just a few words,” Charlie said. “Give it a shot.”

  “Envy can be a useful emotion when it motivates people to improve themselves, but too often envy can be destructive. Envy is wanting other people’s qualities, successes, or possessions and not having them. It engenders shame and loss of self-confidence.”

  “That’s why successful people become targets?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes. The public’s reaction is one thing because we all value fairness, and react negatively to any hint of unfairness. With runners, it’s different. When we compete, most of us lose. Losing, especially for hardworking trained athletes is difficult and some need to protect ourselves from shame and self-doubt by devaluating and diminishing the accomplishments of others. One runner recently attacked me without a shred of evidence. She stated that she had lost to me only because I cheated.”

  “And,” Charlie asked, “that made her feel better?”

  “Of course. It wasn’t her inadequacies, she concluded, she’d lost because I cheated.” Izzy paused. “Thank God that only a few react this way.”

  “Yes,” Charlie said, “but in this interconnected world, even minority opinions find a bullhorn in the Internet.” Charlie changed subjects. How are your legs and will you be in good enough shape to compete in the Boston Marathon?”

  “My legs are much better, but when I subject them to 26 miles, 385 yards, who knows how they’ll survive. While people have speculated about my legs due to well-publicized injury, the same considerations hold true for all marathoners.”

  “I have two remaining questions,” Charlie said.

  “Go ahead,” Izzy said.

  “How do you feel about the Boston Marathon, one year after the attack?”

  Izzy studied Charlie. “Do you have a few hours?”

  “Please, Izzy,” Charlie said, “our viewers will value your insights.”

  “You’re read my bio, but for the sake of the viewer, I worked as a forensic psychiatrist for several years. Fortunately, my boss, Dr. Michael Rose, worked for both the prosecution and the defense. He was the polar opposite of the paid expert witness who would say anything for a buck. Here’s what I learned: psychiatry and especially forensic psychiatry are flawed professions where even the honest, informed, and experienced psychiatrist can make mistakes. I came to recall and embrace what every child in this country knows—evil exists in the world and we, especially we professionals, must always be on guard against it.” Izzy paused. “One time, I wasn’t sufficiently on guard or skeptical enough, and it drove me from the profession.” She paused. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t answered your question. What those brothers did, were acts of pure evil and blind hatred—the acts of psychopaths. Political or religious justifications are a sham. Izzy paused again. “My guess, is that the Boston Marathon this year, and the foreseeable future will be safer than any time in the past.”

  “What are your plans following the Boston Marathon?” Charlie asked.

  “Win or lose, doing well or not so well,” Izzy said, “I definitely need a break. Mitchell Silverman, my coach, has asked me to join him in the training of marathoners, but I can’t see giving up teaching or treating patients. We may be able to work something out so I can do both.”

  Charlie turned to the camera. “I’d like to thank my guests, Lynda Levy, and the indomitable Izzy Kramer.” He turned to back to Izzy. “Good luck in the Boston Marathon. I think there are more that a few rooting for you.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  Two days later, David called, and asked if Izzy would come to his laboratory for a final physiological evaluation before the Boston Marathon.

  When she came out of the locker room in her running gear, Jodie said, “I hope this won’t be a problem for your legs. The last thing we want is to compromise your healing.”

  “Not a problem,” Izzy said, “the treadmill runs are nothing compared to what I do several times each week.”

  When she approached the treadmill, David offered his hand. “I’m so glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure that you’d come.”

  “You think that I don’t understand the pressures on you?”

  “Well, thank you for that, Izzy, but still, it wasn’t my finest hour.”

  “Welcome to the human race,” Izzy said, “without them, I’d be out of business.” She paused and studied the equipment. “What do you have in store for me?”

  “You’ll go through the same sequence as we did on your first day here. The only difference now, is that we’re wireless.”

  Izzy ran through the progressive levels of pace and elevation to the max of 9.5 miles per hour. Jodie took multiple samples for lactate levels.

  After Izzy showered and changed, she returned to David’s office where he was sitting with Jodie studying the data results sheet.

  “How did I do?” Izzy asked.

  “You blew us away with your first attempt,” David said, “and now you’re even better. If metabolic preparedness guaranteed success, I’d bet the house on you in Boston.”

  “Recall the Book of Daniel, David, my feet may not be of clay, but my legs might be.” Izzy paused. “If they carry me to the finish line in Boston, I may have a chance.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Izzy was approaching Mitch’s office as Hunter was just leaving. They embraced.

  “I’m a wreck,” Hunter said. “I really don’t know why I got into this in the first place.”

  “It�
��s stage fright. Athletes do their best when they reach the starting line trembling with anxiety.”

  “Right,” Hunter said. “If you see me in the bushes vomiting my guts up, just drag me to the starting line.”

  “Will do.”

  “Do you have your pre-race schedule?” Izzy asked.

  “Yes. It’s too easy. I sure hope Mitch knows what he’s doing?”

  “It’s a little late for that question, Hunter.”

  “I’m flying with my mother and my boyfriend, Sunday. When are you going?”

  “We’ll be on the same flight.” She hugged Hunter again, and said, “Gotta go. Can’t keep the tyrant waiting.”

  When Izzy entered the office, Mitch rose and they sat together on his sofa.

  “The USADA’s lifting the ban on you has cleared our path to the Boston Marathon. It’s a huge weight off my shoulders, and I can only imagine what it has done for you.”

  “I’m merely a new woman, Mitch. Maybe, some day, I can discover why those accusations affected me so much.”

  “Well,” he said, “as long as the new woman can run like the old one, I’m okay.” He paused. “Remember that while naysayers remain, they’re a shrinking minority. Nothing, especially facts, will dissuade that type—Ignore them.”

  “You saw me on Charlie Rose?”

  “Yes, both of you did well. Here’s the upshot, the public is beginning to focus on the urgent question: will Izzy be ready for the Boston Marathon, and how well you do?

  “Betting sites across the country, but especially in Las Vegas, have a full range of betting options for those so inclined. These included your placing in the first 100, to not completing the race at all.”

  Izzy and Mitch studied the computer screen. “Your odd of winning the Boston Marathon are coming in at 1 in 100.”

  Izzy smiled. “That’s not too bad for a newcomer.”

  “You’re gonna love this one,” Mitch said.

  “What?”

  “The odds makers give you a 1 in 163,000 chance of dying during the race.”

  “Sure, and my chances of dying from a car crash are 1 in 500.”

  “Yes,” Mitch said, “but that’s in a lifetime, not the duration of the Boston Marathon.”

  Izzy smiled at Mitch. “Don’t I have enough to worry about?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but for the last few days, we’ve had visitors in Redwood Park.”

  “Who?”

  “Photographers and scouts,” Mitch said. “They, like Paparazzi, just want the photos to make a buck, but the others are touts, trying to scrounge up enough data to influence the betting odds.”

  “This is nuts,” she said. “Has this happened before?”

  “Yes,” Mitch said, “but the Isabel Kramer story has burst through the barrier between those who are interested in marathons and marathoners, and the general public.” Mitch paused and managed a wry smile. “You’ve become the human equivalent of the Triple Crown winner, Secretariat or Seabiscuit.”

  “That’s nuts,” Izzy said. “These people need to get a life.”

  “Maybe, but this will be a fact of life for you until you retire.”

  “Well, okay,” she said, “but it’s a hell of a lot better than people pointing the finger at me and questioning my character.”

  “Enough of that,” Mitch said. He handed Izzy a two-page printout. “This is your schedule for the week. Hunter will follow the regular pre-marathon plan, but I’ve modified yours.”

  “How?”

  “Let me be frank, Dr. Kramer, since neither of us know how well those legs will hold up in 26 miles 385 yards, I say, throw all caution to the wind, race. If your legs are going to fail, I say let them fail in the race and not in training.”

  “You’re that worried?”

  “I always worry, but with a 61-year-old injured woman, my radar’s set on the highest sensitivity level.”

  Izzy scanned the schedule, and shook her head. “You really are going easy on me, Mitch. Is that necessary?”

  “It’s more or less a standard taper that all runners need. I’ve included a bit more downhill running appropriate to the Boston Marathon and I’ve reduced the distance of your longest run. We’ll be in Boston for seven days before the race, and when you hit the start line, young lady, you’ll be as ready as I can make you.”

  Izzy felt her eyes filling with tears.

  Mitch studied her, and said, “Oh, no…Izzy, don’t…”

  “Shut up, Mitch. A little genuine emotion and you’re running for the hills—get over it.” She paused. “I’ve had my moments when I’d have been willing to put a contract out on you, especially in the beginning, but you’ve proven to be the best thing that ever happened to me, besides Ross, and I’d like to thank you…”

  “Izzy, I…”

  “Let me finish, would you?”

  Mitch nodded.

  “Trust me, Mitch, your secret is safe with me, although anyone with a decent ability to understand others, will know that you’re a sensitive, caring guy.”

  Mitch grabbed his chest simulating heart pain. “Slanderous, Izzy—slanderous. That’s a hell of a way to treat a friend.”

  Izzy reached over and hugged Mitch. He resisted a moment, and then relented, hugging her in return, then pulling away.

  “Enough,” he said. “I’ve worked hard to give you the discipline you need. Don’t let it go now, when you depend on it the most.”

  “Don’t, Mitch,” she said grinning. “I had the motivation, but I didn’t have the discipline. You gave that to me, but more that that, you believed in me. I can never thank you enough.”

  “No, you can’t. When this is over, and you join me in training others, I’ll extract my pound of flesh—that is if I can find a pound on that skinny frame.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Friday, after work, Izzy attended her farewell party at the UC Faculty Club. She wore a floral, tea-length sleeveless dress. When she entered the Great Hall on Ross’s arm, the crowd of about one hundred shocked her. She scanned the room. “I don’t know half the people here.”

  “It’s the faculty, friends, friends of friends, the media, deans, and the president of the university,” he said.

  A string quartet played in the corner as waiters carried trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne, leaving and returning to the room as their trays emptied.

  As Izzy moved through the room, she tried to embrace the greetings, congratulations, and well wishes with the grace that she didn’t feel.

  Ross noted her discomfort. “Hang in there, sweetheart—it’ll only get worse.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she replied. They moved out into a quiet area before the fireplace. Izzy scanned the crowd. “I know what you’re going to say, but all these people—all this pressure to do well and not disappoint my friends and fans, it’s overwhelming.”

  “I don’t think I’m that predictable and I wouldn’t change for one moment that aspect or any other aspect of your personality. You’re a caring and loving person, and it shows. You think it’s your running and celebrity; I say it’s you, sweetheart. Running or not, you’re fantastic, and I’m the lucky one you chose to marry.”

  Izzy blushed. “I didn’t know you were still capable of doing that to me.”

  The President of the University of California joined Izzy and Ross before the fireplace, and when she nodded, the music stopped. She picked up a small microphone, waited until the crowd became quiet, and then said, “The Regents of the University of California welcome you tonight to celebrate one of our own.” She nodded toward Izzy, “Dr. Isabel Kramer, needs no introduction.”

  The room erupted with applause.

  Izzy blushed yet again.

  The President continued, “We’ve never been shy about celebrating our successes or the success of our faculty and students—we unashamedly bask in your successes.” She paused. “Let me introduce someone closer to Dr. Kramer than I, and ask her to share a few words. Ladies and gentlemen, Dr
. Allison Chinn, the Chairperson of the Department of Psychology.”

  Allison took the microphone. “Thank you all for coming to celebrate as Izzy takes her next step in her quest for greatness.” She paused and looked at Izzy. “I expected that she winced at any statement that suggested that greatness had been on her agenda. That’s not Izzy, but that conclusion, right or wrong, is for others to make.” She paused again. “And, as long as I’ve irked Izzy, already, let me compound the felony by asking her to say a few words.”

  “Thanks a lot, Allison,” Izzy said facetiously. “With friends like you…” she said, with a smile.

  “When Allison hinted, too vaguely it seems, that you might want to hear from me, my first thought was what not to say. My senior fans have used the word, inspirational to describe me. If they find inspiration in what I’ve achieved, and in me and, if they get motivated themselves, I can live with that. But, that word doesn’t describe, in any way, how I feel about myself.”

  Izzy paused and scanned the audience, catching a familiar eye or two in the process. “My story isn’t at all complicated, although for a moment or two in the last few months, it had become so. I enjoyed running cross-country while in high school, and in fact, showed promise. For complex reasons that promise remained unfulfilled.

  “When Jennifer, my daughter, asked me to run the Bay to Breakers, neither of us knew what it might portend. Nevertheless, it did rekindle my love of running, the gratification of doing something well, and a second chance. Doing something well may be the cornerstone of what we must do in education, and, frankly, what that is, doesn’t mean much to anyone but the student.

  “To paraphrase a song from South Pacific, once you have found it, never let it go. Once I committed to running, I had no idea where it would lead, but I enjoyed the running, the training, and the sense of accomplishment. Winning became an embarrassment—imagine, a mature woman, a psychiatrist with a deep understanding of human behavior, and I had no idea how to handle success.” She paused. “Moreover, while I was racing for my own reasons, suddenly I was running for others—to please them, or at least, not embarrass and disappoint them. That increased the psychological burden on me, many fold.