Len Joy's Blog

As I reported in my previous blog post, last year my friend Cam persuaded me to participate in Ragbrai – a weeklong bike adventure across Iowa. It’s not a race – it’s more like a Burning Man on wheels.  We started outdoor training in March and by July we had logged over a thousand miles.

Unfortunately fifteen miles into the ride on the first day a rider lost control of his bike as he crossed over Mud Creek bridge. He hit the concrete side curb and his bike careened across the road in front of us. As he struggled to regain control he swerved back to the right. I slammed on my brakes as he went down. I was certain I was going to run over him but I missed him. A rider behind me screamed, "Don't stop." I rode to the top of the next hill and waited for Cam.

She didn't show. Cam had hit the rear tire of his bike and she was seriously injured. She had a concussion; fractures in her upper jaw; a fractured left wrist; broken fingers on her right hand – ring and pinkie finger; a shattered right elbow and numerous deep bruises and road rash from face to foot - mostly on her right side. 

Our great Ragbrai adventure ended with a trip to the Council Bluffs Emergency room and then an eight hour drive back to Evanston. During the next few weeks after she returned, Cam had surgery on her right hand (two pins), on her right elbow (seven pins and a titanium plate), and three root canals. She also started occupational therapy to regain the range of motion in her elbow, wrist and hand.

Cam has been heartened by the outpouring of support and concern from the Ragbrai community of riders. Now some 60 days since the accident she is done with surgery and even her damaged bike is ready for pickup.

As for outside riding this season she is sticking to her indoor trainer.  She has signed up for a 100km run for May of next year and she says she will learn to fall on her left side from here on out.

 Twenty-one years ago, in September 2003, I received a mailer from the University of Chicago’s Graham School, inviting me to sign up for their Introduction to Creative Writing course.  At the time I was traveling to Phoenix ten to fifteen days a month. I owned and managed with my brother-in-law and an engine remanufacturing company. I had been making that commute for fifteen years.  We had survived many financial and operational challenges, but we were not prospering, and had already made the decision to wind the business down. 

I signed up for the writing course on a whim.  It was a wonderful change of pace from what I had been doing and I got just enough encouragement from the instructor to try another class. That first year I I took classes on flash fiction, poetry, short story, and introduction to the novel.  One of the instructors suggested I attend the Iowa Writer’s Festival summer program – weeklong classes on a variety of writing topics.  I loved the festival experience – it was like summer camp for adults.  Over the next few years I participated in several writer workshops, including Tin House, Squaw Valley, Napa Valley, Skidmore, Norman Mailer, Sewanee, and Bread Loaf.

Soon after I returned from my first writer workshop in Iowa I joined the Zoetrope  Writer’s Workshop which had been created by Francis Ford Coppola.  On Zoetrope, writers could post a story and get feedback from other writers.  To have your story reviewed, you first had to review five other stories. The opportunity to get honest, critical feedback was invaluable. And learning how to analyze stories and give constructive feedback made me a much better writer. Over the nine years I was active in Zoetrope I posted over fifty stories and reviewed over three hundred.

On June 23rd, 2005, my niece, asked me if I would write a story to be read at her wedding in September. I thought that was a bad idea and eventually she abandoned the notion, but not before I wrote a 1000-word story titled, “The Toast,” about a thrice-divorced salesman named Clayton who is asked to give a toast at his niece’s wedding.  A year later that story had evolved into a 4000-word story titled, “Dancer Stonemason is Missing,” The same characters, but I added a father named Dancer. I have no idea where the name came from—it just popped into my head one day.

In the fall of 2006, I started a novel course. Each week we would workshop a new chapter in our novel. I used my Dancer Stonemason story as my first chapter. Eight weeks later I had a 20,000 word “novel.”  

I worked on that novel for years. Workshopped chapters at Tin House and Squaw Valley and Sewanee and hired professional writer / editors to give me feedback.  I rewrote it with a half dozen times.  Finally, after I had officially given up on it in 2013, a small independent publisher accepted it for publication. After another major revision American Past Time was published in April 2014 – eight years and nine months after I wrote that short story.

1st Place Top Shelf Book Awards Fiction - General

Gold Medal Winner - Readers' Favorite Sports Fiction

Finalist - Beverly Hills Book Awards

September 1953...

Dancer Stonemason is three days from his major league debut. With his wife and son cheering him on, he pitches the greatest game of his life. And then loses everything.

Told against the backdrop of America's postwar challenges from Little Rock to the Bay of Pigs to Viet Nam, American Past Time is the story of what happens to a man and his family after the cheering stops.

"Darkly nostalgic story of an American family through good times and bad. A well-crafted novel that will appeal to sports and history aficionados." - Kirkus Review

I tried to write a sequel to American Past Time, but I couldn't make it work and after a year I gave up. I've always been interested in athletes and competitive sports and decided to write a story about someone who achieves their life’s ambition at an early age.  I wanted to write about the life lived after the cheering stops. I was inspired by Springsteen's Glory Days and Better Days ballads.

Silver Medal Winner – Readers' Favorite

Finalist – Eric Hoffer Award

Finalist - National Indies Excellence Awards

When you achieve your life’s ambition at eighteen, what do you do with the rest of your life? For Darwin Burr, a cushy job working for his boyhood friend fits the bill.

Coasting through his grown-up years on the fading memory of a long-ago high school basketball championship, Darwin isn't looking for much. He's happy right where he is coaching high school basketball.

But when his friend vanishes trying to elude the FBI, Darwin's loyalty is tested beyond anything he could have imagined. Now, he must risk everything to save his friend.           

"...an attention-grabbing crime story in which unexpected upheavals result in welcome second chances." - Foreword Reviews

I still wanted to write a sequel to American Past Time. I had created a lot of characters that I never had a chance to use. But instead of trying to write another multi-generation saga I decided to have the story take place on a single day in July 2003 – almost thirty years after American Past Time ended.  I gave Missouri another river (that’s why I love fiction) and a devastating tornado. I started Everyone Dies Famous in September 2018 and it was published in August 2020. 

1st Prize - Top Shelf Book Awards - Southern Fiction

Everyone dies famous is a story from the heartland about the uncommon lives of everyday people — the choices they make, how they live their lives, and how they die.

As a tornado threatens their town, a stubborn old man who has lost his son teams up with a troubled young soldier to deliver a jukebox to the wealthy developer having an affair with the soldier’s wife. It’s July 2003 and the small town of Maple Springs, Missouri is suffering through a month-long drought. Dancer Stonemason, a long-forgotten hometown hero still grieving over the death of his oldest son, is moving into town to live with his more dependable younger son. He hires Wayne Mesirow, an Iraq war veteran, to help him liquidate his late son’s business. The heat wave breaks and the skies darken. Dancer tries to settle an old score while Wayne discovers the true cost of his wife’s indifference and turns his thoughts to revenge. When the tornado hits Maple Springs, only one of the men will make it out alive.

“Len Joy’s Everyone Dies Famous is a clear-eyed examination of how we live in an uncertain world. — KEVIN WILSON, author of Nothing to See Here

I lived in Phoenix (on and off) for over fifteen years when I was running the engine company.  Managing a company with over one hundred employees was an adventure – rewarding, challenging, and sometimes heartbreaking. I wouldn’t have traded that experience for anything. And I loved the area – running, hiking, and biking on the mountain trails, water skiing at Lake Pleasant, Mexican happy hours, trying to dance at the cowboy bars.  I even liked the heat…most of the time.  My next novel was inspired by a real-life incident that happened to the son of one of my employees.  I started Dry Heat in July 2019 and it was published August 2022.

When a promising high school athlete is falsely accused of shooting a cop, he enlists the aid of a notorious gang leader to find the real shooter, unleashing a chain of events that alters the course of his life and that of the girl he loves.

“Dry Heat is a page turner with heart. A tale of star-crossed lovers…this smoothly written novel is full of friendship, family, and redemption.” — Nickolas Butler, author of Shotgun Lovesongs and Godspeed

“A rousing suspenseful crime drama with memorable characters.” — Kirkus Reviews

"A moving coming-of-age piece." - BOOKLIFE

Covid disrupted everyone.  There were no races to train for, but we kept training, knowing it would pass. I had a lot more time to write.  I had never written about Chicago or my hometown of Skokie and Evanston. My favorite newspaper, The Chicago Tribune, was going through a wrenching transformation and many of the local columnists had left the paper. I decided to make my main character a columnist trying to hang on.  I gave him a lot of challenges. I started the novel in January 2021 and it was published in October 2022.

"A compulsively readable novel that will be easy to devour in one marathon sitting." — Kirkus Reviews, Star Review

Jake Doyle used to be famous.

Twenty years ago, his Chicago political column was syndicated in two hundred papers, but he had an affair — and a son — with his intern, and lost it all. Now he writes a local column and drives for Uber to pay his bills. Jake is playing out the string when his tranquil world is turned upside down. His biracial son — an ambitious entrepreneur — is marked for death by a street gangster, his alcoholic daughter is pregnant and wants an abortion — which his ex-wife is determined to stop at any cost – and his boss, a wealthy publisher, wants Jake to give up his column to help him run for president. Jake believes in gun control, but he wants to protect his son. He believes in his daughter’s right to choose, but that belief looks different now that it’s personal. And he wants to keep writing his column without interference, but he also wants one more chance to be famous again.

I have often imagined my novels as films. My stories are heavy with dialogue and action and not a lot of character rumination. After Freedom was published, I spent six months writing a screenplay for Dry Heat.  It was a challenging experience. The screenplay has made it to the semi-finals in a couple of small screenplay contests, which doesn’t mean a lot, but does give me encouragement to keep working on the craft. I returned to novel writing in June 2023.  I had this revelation that since I had two novels about the Stonemason clan – stories separated by thirty years – there was an opportunity to fill in the gap and write the prequel to Everyone Dies Famous (or the sequel to American Past Time).  American Jukebox, my latest novel will be published in October 2024.

Clayton Stonemason idolized his father, a hometown hero in their small Missouri town. But when his father’s life unravels, Clayton loses his way, too. He tries to escape his father’s legacy but discovers he can’t run from his destiny.

AMERICAN JUKEBOX, a story of small-town America in the last decades of the twentieth century, explores the many ways our relationships, hopes, and dreams can alter the course of our lives.

"Intriguing and thought-provoking…an interesting commentary on the social community of small-town America and a fascinating look into the psyche of a young man struggling to find his place in the world. Highly recommended!" — Grant Leishman – Readers’ Favorite

I can't believe I have been writing for two decades now. Looking forward to the next two. Still have lots of stories to share.

I don’t want to bury the lede.

This story doesn’t end well.

Last summer my friend Cam asked me if I would be interested in a weeklong bike ride across Iowa the last week in July.

“It’s called Ragbrai – Register America’s Great Bike Ride Across Iowa – it’s about five hundred miles.”  

“Where do we stay?” I asked.

“Most people camp. It’s a fun event. This year there were over twenty thousand riders.”

Twenty thousand? I haven’t camped since I went to Philmont Scout Ranch in 1967.  “No way, Cam. I’m too old to sleep on the ground.”

Cam is an endurance athlete. She does ultramarathons and other crazy races.  She’s always looking for a new challenge. A couple years ago she persuaded me to sign up for the 70.3 Michigan Ironman. I am a triathlete, but my races are all short.  “It will be fun,” she said. “We’ll rent an Airbnb on Lake Michigan for the week and Suzanne and Neil (our spouses) and the dogs (she has two Rhodesian Ridgebacks) can join us.”

It actually was fun – even the training – and we finished the race, so I was glad I let her persuade me. But camping with twenty thousand cyclists. No way.

Cam doesn’t give up easily. A week later she was back.

“Look at this.” She showed me a picture of an 18-wheeler hauling a multi-colored trailer with five doors in the sidewall. “It’s called a Snoozebox. Bunk beds and air conditioning!”

I checked it out. Five 8 x 10 cubicles that could each sleep four people (they’d have to be close friends) with a/c and multiple power outlets, but no running water. They would park it near the outdoor showers and porta-johns.

“Okay,” I said with some trepidation.  We reserved our Snoozebox in November and started training in February.

I am not a cyclist. Triathletes wear tri-shorts that you can swim and run in, and we ride as fast as we can for the race distance – for me that was usually twelve or twenty-five miles at 18 to 20 mph.  But this wasn’t a race – it was a test of endurance. We just had to finish. We bought padded bike shorts and gloves, and our rides were conversational.  Fourteen miles per hour or less. No cardio stress.  

We would ride three or four times a week – anywhere from twenty to fifty miles. On Saturdays and Sundays, we would stop for coffee after the ride and talk about all the crazy Ragbrai posts on Facebook. The ride was going to start in Glenwood, Iowa just east of the Missouri River and wind through a dozen small towns ending in Burlington, just west of the Mississippi River. 

Ragbrai was a big event for these small towns and at each stop along the way there would be local groups offering beer, sausage, pancakes, pies, pastries, coffee, burgers, pizza – all the essential food groups. Cam and my coach, Heather, continually reminded me that this was not a race and that I needed to enjoy the journey.  “I want to try the slip-n-slide, “Cam said. “And go to a spaghetti church dinner.”

I figured I would pass on the slip and slide, but the spaghetti dinner sounded good.

Neil and Suzanne (the spouses) were not excited about the idea of driving us to Glenwood – it’s an eight-hour drive – so I made a one-way SUV rental to Glenwood and another from Burlington for our return on Sunday.   We left Evanston on Saturday morning at 5 a.m. and made it to Glenwood by 2. We unloaded our gear, drove to Enterprise – which was closed for the weekend – dropped the key off and took an Uber back to the Snoozebox.  We were parked next to an empty house and the owner allowed us to use the shower and toilets.  We shared wine and beer with our Snoozebox neighbors, Gary and Pat, and went to bed in our air-conditioned cubicle.

There is no official starting time or line for Ragbrai. The roads are controlled from 6 am to 6 pm.  We were on the road by 6:30. The tent campers had to pack up and put their gear on the Ragbrai bus to take it to the next stop. With the Snoozebox, we didn’t have to do that, and it allowed us to get an early start, so the bike traffic was not intense.

The first day ride was to Red Oak – forty-four miles away. The first pass through town was Silver City – eleven miles down the road. As we rolled through the Iowa farmland, the sunlight refracted through a light surface fog. It was beautiful and eerie, like a scene from “Field of Dreams.”  On our training rides I always followed Cam – she set a good pace. But I weigh a lot more than Cam, so on the first significant downhill, I cruised past her, even though I wasn’t pedaling.  I slowed down on the next uphill, expecting Cam to pass me, but she didn’t. I thought maybe her chain had come off so after a few minutes I stopped along the side of the road to wait for her.

Big mistake. While there were only dozens of riders when we started out when I looked back to try and spot Cam, there were hundreds. The road was packed.  I scanned the pack for a couple of minutes, and then got back on my bike.  I decided to wait for her when we got to Silver City.  We had agreed that if we got separated we would meet at the Fire Station in town.  As I approached the outskirts of Silver City, there was Cam on the side of the road waving and laughing. 

We walked our bikes through the town. It was a carnival atmosphere. We weren’t that hungry yet, so we passed on the breakfast burrito and the donuts, but then we spotted the pie table. Couldn’t resist that. We split a large slice of pecan pie.

We got back on our bikes. The next town was Henderson – we could have breakfast there.

But five miles out of Silver City was the iconic Iowa Craft Beer tent. Gary, our Snoozebox neighbor, had told Cam there would be twelve beer stations on the ride and if you collected a beer wristband at each station you would earn a free tee-shirt.  Cam could never resist an endurance challenge like that.  We had agreed at Silver City that whenever we got separated again, she would yell my name so that I knew she was behind me.  As we approached the beer site, she shouted, “Len, we need to stop here.” 

We stopped and while I wasn’t planning on having a beer at 8 a.m. I figured it is always good to hydrate.

While we were enjoying the beer, Cam spotted these dudes who always rode in speedos with American flag capes – like superheroes. She asked if she could have her picture taken with them, and of course they were happy to comply.

We got back on our bikes and headed toward Henderson.  About three miles past the beer stop we started down another long hill.  I’ve replayed this scene in my head countless times, trying to remember exactly what happened.  As we descended my momentum carried me past Cam. Ahead of me to my right there was a guy in brown shorts and a tee-shirt. I saw him start to wobble and I slowed down. He lost control of his bike and veered sharply to the left and then fishtailed back to the right and then he went down in front of me. I knew I was going to ride over him.

I braced myself and twisted my handlebars to the right. My rear tire fishtailed and somehow, I missed him. I emerged from the skid and regained control of my bike. I heard crashing and screaming behind me.  Someone yelled, “Don’t stop" I realized that if I tried to stop and help him, I could cause another accident.  I rode slowly, waiting for Cam to pass me or yell to me that she was behind me. But I didn’t hear anything.  I figured she might have been able to stop in time to offer assistance. That’s the kind of thing she would do.

That downhill was followed by another rolling hill. When I got to the crest, I stopped and got off my bike. There was a large swath of riders where the guy had crashed. Traffic was backed up as riders slowly made their way past the accident.  I spotted a rider making her way up the hill. Blue shirt, black bike. I sighed with relief.

But it wasn't Cam.

After about five minutes I decided to walk back to the accident. I left my bike and headed down the road on the far side. Two ambulances had arrived from the other direction.  When I was about twenty yards from the ambulance, I saw a stretcher on the ground. It’s the kind of board they bring out at football games when a player has been injured and they want to stabilize his neck and spine. There was a woman on the board. She was wearing a blue jersey.

I am a writer. I should be able to describe what I felt. But I can’t.

Numb.

Scared.

The EMTs were strapping her to the board. I knelt next to her and put my hand on her shoulder. Her face was bloody. “Cam, are you okay?”

She looked at me. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.”

The EMTs were cool and professional. They joked with her about the driver and then told her to hold on to the “Jesus handles” as they carried her to the ambulance. I helped them lift the stretcher into the ambulance. The EMT told me I could ride with her. He explained that the Ragbrai SAG wagon would retrieve her bike and take it to Red Oak. They were taking her to the hospital in Council Bluffs.  I told them I had to go back and get my bike and gear. By the time I returned her ambulance had left.

One of the remaining EMTs told me I might be able to find a deputy in Silver City who could drive me to Council Bluffs.  There had been a few folks riding against the traffic – locals trying to get some place – so I knew it could be done. I started riding – riders would see me coming and would shout, “Rider up!”  I shouted, “On your left, sorry!” over and over and over again.  Traffic got worse and some riders naturally weren’t looking for someone going in the wrong direction. I had a couple of close shaves and then a trio riding a three-seater bike barreled down the hill on the far left side. They were going over forty heading straight for me. I drove onto the shoulder and they missed me by inches.  I got off and walked the bike. I was shaking.

When I got to the top of the hill I spotted a guy named Cliff wearing an Air Force support crew shirt. Cam had told me that those guys were out on the road to help riders who have a problem like a flat tire. I told Cliff what happened. He explained that a SAG wagon would eventually come by and could take me and my bike to Red Oak, but it might be hours before the wagon arrived.

I didn’t want to wait for hours, and I didn’t want to go Red Oak, I wanted to go to Council Bluffs. He told me if I left the bike there the SAG wagon would pick it up and bring it to Red Oak.

I had brought lightweight Vivofit shoes that I had strapped to my aerobars. I put them on and left my bike by the side of the road. I was about to start walking back to Silver City when I spotted a car slowly making its way up the road – going against traffic too. I flagged down the driver.

A teenager named Berkley was driving her little sister and two of her sister’s friends to summer camp. I asked her if she could give me a ride to Silver City. 

“I don’t know how to get there,” she said. “But when I drop these girls off, my mom will know. She can help you.”

Her mom was giving out water at the beer spot we had left an hour ago. Berkley walked me over to her and explained that I wanted to go to Silver City because my friend had been in an accident and the ambulance had taken her to Council Bluffs.

Every time I try to explain what happened next, I choke up. Even when I am just talking to myself or writing the words down.

Her mom looked at me, her face etched with concern. “Do you know someone in Silver City who can take you to Council Bluffs?”

“No,” I said. I wanted to say more. Explain that maybe there was a deputy who could drive me to Council Bluffs. But I couldn’t talk. My throat was tight, my vision was blurry.

She turned to her daughter. “Drive him to Council Bluffs.”

No hesitation. Just a reminder to Berkley to fill the car with gas. And to buy some pickles on her way back.

She patted my shoulder and handed me a bottle of water. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you to your friend right away.”

I think her kindness (and Berkley’s) were what I will always remember about this trip. We kept hearing about how nice Iowans were.  It’s true.

I made it to the Emergency Room by 10:30. Cam had broken two fingers, her elbow, and several teeth. Possibly a broken upper jaw. Her bike helmet had cracked, and she had a slight concussion.  In typical Cam fashion, she was joking with the doctors when I walked in. She would need several surgeries and she needed to get back to Evanston, so she could arrange things with her doctors.

Neil was planning to drive down and get her, but that would take at least a day and we would still need to retrieve her gear and bike from the Snoozebox. I talked to Neil, and we decided that the best course of action would be for me to rent an SUV and drive her and all our gear back to Evanston.

I called Enterprise. They couldn’t rent to me because the contract for the car we had dropped off on Saturday hadn’t been closed out yet as that location was not opened on Sunday. The system does not allow them to have two open contracts to the same driver. No way around it. I tried Hertz and Avis, but I couldn’t reach a human to explain what I wanted. I called Alamo. They were happy to help until I explained that I wanted to drop the car off in Chicago. The only place that would accept the drop off was the Quad Cities airport near Moline, Illinois.

I didn’t know where Moline was, and I didn’t care. I made the reservation. While Cam was getting an EKG, I took an Uber to the Omaha airport. The Uber driver dropped me off at the south end of the airport. That was a mistake. The rental car center was at the north end. It was now 1 p.m. the sun was melting me and I was about a mile away with no good place to walk.

I flagged down a shuttle bus driver, but he told me couldn’t pick up a sweaty old man in bike shorts and a helmet. Okay, he didn’t say that, but he wouldn’t pick me up.  I guess Nebraskans aren’t as nice as Iowans. 

I got to the parking garage, still no clue where I was supposed to go. A security guard asked me where my bike was. It was a joke, but when I told hm my story, he was concerned and helpful. Told me where to go and how to get there safely (airports aren’t very pedestrian friendly.)

My luck had changed.

There was no one waiting at the Alamo counter. I got a 2024 GMC Terrain and made it back to the hospital by 3 p.m. They had discharged Cam, and she was waiting for me. She looked like hell, but they had given her enough pain killers that she was in a loopy good mood, joking about all the free stuff they had given her at the gift shop. I told her that they had done that so she would leave and not scare all the customers.

We drove to our Snoozebox in Red Oak. They had retrieved our bikes, so with help from our Snoozebox buddies, Gary and Pat, I loaded up the car while Cam supervised, offering her usual smart-ass comments.  Eventually her painkillers were going to wear off, and I wanted to get her home before that happened.

We left for home at 5:15. I made great time until the sun went down. I am not so great driving in the dark, but I80 is well marked, and I just followed any big rig I could keep up with.

Cam was great – I know she was hurting – especially the last hour after the meds wore off, but she didn’t start swearing until we were twenty miles from home, stuck in a 1 a.m. traffic jam on the Dan Ryan.

I made it to her house at 1:30. It was a long, long awful day and now she will need months to rehab. I know she might not come up with another of her crazy endurance adventures.  I’m sad thinking about that, but I remember what the ER doctor told her, “Hey, you survived. You could have died or been paralyzed, so that’s good news.” 

He’s right.

On July 9, 2005 I entered my first multisport race – The Splash, Pedal, Dash Sprint Triathlon in Schaumburg, Illinois.

Earlier that year I had enrolled in an “Introduction to Triathlon” program at McGaw YMCA. The goal of the program was to learn the basics and then compete in the Glenview Sprint Triathlon at the end of July.

I had a lot to learn.

I showed up for my first swim practice without goggles, and the bike I was planning to use was new in 1975. Mitch, the Y instructor, suggested I might want to replace it. I had no idea what my time would be for a 400-yard swim – but I grew up on a lake – I knew how to swim. Mitch, who was a collegiate swimmer, wasn’t so sure. But his goal was just to make sure I wouldn’t drown, and I passed that test.

I bought goggles and a new bike and showed up for all the swim and bike workouts. I didn’t figure I needed any run training – I had been running every day for the last 20 years. The Y program wrapped up in June and I didn’t want to wait until the end of July to put my training to the test, so I signed up for the Schaumburg triathlon. I was ready to take the triathlon world by storm.

The Y program was helpful, but they never told us what to wear. I had watched a film on the Ironman World Championship and when the athletes got out of the water they ran to a tent and changed from their swim gear to their bike gear. I wore swim trunks for the outdoor pool swim and planned to change to my bike shorts in the changing tent. But, of course, there was no changing tent – just a parking lot where my bike was racked.

Oops.

I arranged my bike shoes, helmet, and bike shorts next to my bike and when I got out of the pool, I stripped off the swim trunks and tried to quickly put on my bike shorts. It is not so easy when you body is wet. No one complained about my wardrobe malfunction, but it definitely impacted my transition time. That would count as my first official racing mistake.

It wouldn’t be my last.

I finished 6th in my 50-54 age group, with a swim pace of 2:14/100 yards, 16.9 mph on the 15-mile bike ride, and a 5k run of 24:20 – a 7:50 pace per mile.

The next day I bought a tri suit.

Last week I competed in the USAT National Championship Sprint Triathlon in Irving, Texas. It was my 99th multisport race. I finished 12th in the 70-74 age group with a 750-meter swim at a 2:03 pace, a 12-mile bike ride at 20 mph, and a 5k run at a pace of 9:57 per mile. I’ve definitely lost a few steps on the run, but I was faster on the swim and bike then I was at that first race 18 years ago.

How did that happen? Training.

Just like with my writing career, I figured out quickly that if I wanted to excel, I needed professional training. Heather Collins, who runs Monarch Fitness Coaching, has been my coach since 2012. She has helped with my technique on the swim, bike, and run, and most importantly, provided me with strength and mobility training that has enabled me to compete frequently and avoid major injury.

I don’t make it easy for her.

At the USAT Multisport Festival in Irving last week, I competed in 4 races in 4 days. After signing up for those races, I got an invitation to compete for Team USA in the ITU World Championship Sprint Duathlon in Ibiza. That race was a week after the Irving races so Heather had to prepare a training program that would get me through 5 races in 10 days.

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned from multisport competition is that when you make a mistake, you can’t let it derail you. I figured that out at that first race when I showed up without a tri suit. Most mistakes can be overcome if you don’t quit.

I’ve made plenty of racing mistakes over the years, but I’ve managed to finish all but one race in my 18-year career. I put that philosophy to the test this week.

To start with, I made a mistake booking my flight and ended up with a 3-connection flight that arrived in Ibiza 18 hours before my 8 a.m. race. I had to pick up my bike, check in to transition, find our hotel, and try to get some sleep before the race. I managed to make it to the start line on time but my body thought it was midnight. There were 80 of us in the over 70 age group from at least a dozen different countries.

I didn’t have time to check out the course before the race, but I figured I would just follow the faster runners. What could go wrong? Well lots. I followed the wrong guy and missed a turn on the first run segment, then went temporarily off-course coming out of transition on the bike, and then to complete the trifecta I almost followed a runner to the finish line prematurely. Three course mistakes in one race is a personal best.

The high point of the race for me was the bike segment. This is a draft-legal race so it is important to draft with other cyclists. I caught up to Brian Stephens from the UK on the 2nd mile of the course and we drafted back and forth for the entire 12 miles. Drafting allows you to save a lot of energy, so that you can run faster on the final segment. I passed Brian on the run, but soon after I finished the announcer proclaimed that Brian Stephens was the new world champion in the 80 to 84 age category.

My 100th race was over and while my USA teammates and I finished back in the pack, I had the satisfaction of knowing I had helped someone achieve a world title.

My next race is the ITU World Championship Sprint Triathlon in Hamburg, Germany in July. My plan is to get there early and study the course. No wrong turns this time!

I ran in the very first Shamrock Shuffle on March 16, 1980. It didn’t look like that picture. We ran through Lincoln Park and there were about 1,000 runners. I was 28 years old.

It was my first competitive race. A year before I had knee surgery to repair the ACL I tore playing basketball. After I recovered from the surgery (full leg cast for 8 weeks back in those days), I couldn’t play basketball at the level I had before, so I decided I would become a competitive runner. My knee surgeon thought that was a bad idea. He said I would wear out my knee.

My training program was very scientific. I ran south on Sheridan Boulevard from my apartment to Loyola and back as fast as I could. I thought there were 10 blocks to a mile, so I figured I was running well under 6 minutes per mile. I decided to test myself on the Loyola ¼ mile track and discovered I wasn’t as fast as I thought.

Walking to the el one day in January I saw an ad for the Shamrock Shuffle 5 Mile Race (no metric system back then). I figured that could be the launching pad for my competitive running career. My goal was to run 6-minute miles.

I was excited. I ran the first mile in 5:45, which was way too fast. I was still under the 6-minute pace through the second mile, but fading. By mile five I was dying. I finished in 33 minutes, 50 seconds for a pace of 6:46. I was 169th (no age groups back then). I remember being very disappointed in my performance.

I ran in three more races that year, always with the goal of breaking the 6-minute barrier, but fell short each time. After that summer, I didn’t race again for 14 years.

On the 4th of July weekend in 1999, my neighbor Ricky Byrdsong was shot and killed two blocks from our home by a white supremacist. The next summer his wife Sherialyn started the Race Against Hate 5K in Evanston. I signed up as a small gesture of respect for Coach Byrdsong. It was a great day of community participation and it inspired me to start racing again.

I started competing in triathlons in 2005 and I have now participated in over 150 races. I even made it to the Boston Marathon.

In March 2020, I wanted to run in the Shamrock Shuffle again, but COVID shut it down. I signed up for the St. Paddy’s Day 5 mile run, which was held near Lincoln Park, just like my first race. Every other race in Chicago had been cancelled. It was an eerie experience. I drove to the race and parked 30 yards from the start line. That doesn’t happen in Lincoln Park…ever. There were only a few hundred participants.

I had an unrealistic goal as I always do. I wanted to run the 5 miles in under 40 minutes – an 8 minute pace. Proving that I have learned something in 40 years, this time I didn’t go out too fast. I finished the race in 37 minutes and 30 seconds for a 7:55 pace. My Garmin data revealed that the course was only 4.7 miles long. My real pace was 8:05. But it’s not my job to measure the course so I’m going with 7:55. Mission accomplished.

That was three years ago. If I ran it today my goal would be a nine-minute mile. The toughest competition I face is that younger version of me. I just can’t beat that guy. He’s stronger, faster, and better-looking.

But maybe I’m smarter. Or at least more experienced.

Sometimes...

March 8, 2022 - Len Joy interviewed on the Tom Sumner Program about his new novel, Dry Heat. Click here for the recording: https://rss.com/podcasts/tomsumnerprogram/413375/

This short story was originally published in The Short Story Library.

Casualties

The waitress refills my coffee. It’s five after eight and Karen is late as usual. From my table at Windows on the 107th floor, I have an awesome view of New York harbor. The September sky is so clear and blue it doesn’t look real. It’s a heartbreaking blue. The vessels in the harbor look like toy boats. I follow one of them as it turns east towards the ocean. I imagine myself at the wheel, salt spray in my face, racing into the morning sun. Heading nowhere. Happy.

I made seven million dollars last year. I have a wife who’s take-your-breath-away beautiful and my daughter Cassie, well, she’s the best. I live in a fifteen-room mansion in New Hartford. That’s about ten rooms more than Karen and I need. We have a tennis court I never use, a swimming pool and a carriage house.

I’m forty-seven years old and I’ve only loved one woman in my life.

<>

The bulletin board at the back of Willard Straight Hall was plastered with political posters. There were a dozen supporting McGovern and almost as many for the Socialist candidate. There was only one Nixon poster that had survived, and someone had given the President a Hitler-like mustache. It didn’t appear that Nixon was going to carry Cornell.

This was supposed to be an orientation mixer for the Class of 1976, but it appeared that everyone but me had already mixed. I wandered through the hall trying not to look like some hick from a town with one traffic light, and ended up staring at the President.

I had decided that Nixon actually looked better with the mustache when a girl with tangled brown hair, her boobs bouncing free under her red Cornell Frosh tee-shirt, walked over to me. She stared at my nametag.

“So Colin O’Keefe, do you think we should re-elect a President who can’t even organize a third-rate burglary?” Before I could answer she took hold of my nametag so she could read the address line below the name. “Where the hell is Clyde Falls?”

I tried to look surprised. “You’ve never heard of the Wayne County Onion Festival?”

She wrinkled her nose. “You celebrate onions?”

“Actually, the festival’s in Elba. But Clyde Falls is just down the road on Highway K,” I said. I wanted to return the favor and grab her nametag, but she had pasted it just above her left nipple and I didn’t have the guts. I could tell from her accent that she was a New Yorker.

Cornell was full of them. “Where the hell’s Brooklyn, Maria Pasquale?”

“That’s Pa-squal-e’. Three syllables. Remember the name. One day there will be a wing in MOMA for my work,” she said, jabbing me in the chest.

“Moma?”

She rolled her eyes. “How about another beer, farm boy?”

<>

Maria was not one to be tied down by her possessions. Her apartment, a small studio at the bottom of one those ridiculous steep hills that surrounded the campus, was cluttered, but nearly unfurnished. She had a mattress with a comforter in the middle of the floor, a dresser in one corner and a small desk and lamp in another. The air was thick with the smell of paint and turpentine. Sketchpads, brushes, canvases and tubes of paint covered the floor and the mattress.

She turned on the lamp, which cast a soft amber glow over the small room. She plowed the art supplies off the mattress and threw herself facedown on the bed. She patted the mattress. “Come here Colin. I promise not to bite. Tell me what it was like to grow up in Mayberry.”

I had never been in a girl’s bedroom before. Back home we’d make out in our cars at the drive-in movies, or if the girl was easy, on one of the back roads, but I never got to see their bedroom. I doubted that they looked like Maria’s room. I flopped down next to her.

“So what do you want to know? My dad’s a dairy farmer. We got about a hundred Holsteins, half dozen Jerseys, couple of Guernseys.”

“Cows? You have to milk them every day?”

“You don’t have many cows in Brooklyn, do you? What do your parents do?”

Maria flipped over and stared up at the ceiling. “My dad was a cop. He died when I was sixteen. My mother ran off when I was two. Dad always said she was a free spirit.” Maria made imaginary quote marks as she spit out the words.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She rolled on to her side and rested her hand on my chest. “I’ll bet you had plenty of girlfriends. Probably even got to date a cheerleader,” she said. She said cheerleader like it was royalty or some mysterious species.

“You weren’t a cheerleader were you?”

Maria sat up and cupped her boobs. “What? You don’t think a voluptuous Italian chick can shake her tits and ass as good as some long-legged dairy queen Barbie?”

I squeezed her ass as I pulled her on top of me. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

She nuzzled my neck. “So, tell me. What’s it like to kiss a cheerleader?”

“Don’t you know?” I asked.

She looked at me in surprise and then laughed. “Good one, farm-boy. You get a point for that.”

Before she could come up with another question, I kissed her. “It’s not as good as kissing an artist,” I said.

She grabbed my shoulders and rolled us over so she was on top. She pulled off her tee-shirt and threw it on the floor. “I’ll bet you didn’t know any girls like me in Clyde Falls.”

<>

Two weeks after Nixon ran the table on hapless George McGovern I moved into Maria’s place. I was unpacking my stuff, trying to squeeze it into the small dresser Maria provided, when I found a framed photograph of little Maria, wearing a Yankees cap, sitting on her father’s lap. He was decked out in his NYPD dress uniform.

“Don’t tell me you’re a Yankee fan,” I said.

Maria took the frame and dusted it off with her tee-shirt. “I was looking for this,” she said placing it on the bookshelf next to the alarm clock. She sat down on the bed, her hands in her lap, as she stared at the faded photo. “My Dad loved the Yankees. He would have traded me for one more World Series.”

I put my arm around her. “No,” I shook my head. “Not for ten World Series.”

<>

We spent the Christmas break with my parents in Clyde Falls. At school Maria hardly took the time to eat, but as soon as she got to Clyde Falls, she acted like she lived in the kitchen. Helped my mom with every meal. My mother was impressed and my father got along with Maria even better than my mom. Maria loved to ask questions and Dad loved to talk. After two weeks with my dad she probably could have passed the mid-terms in the Ag school. She even got up one morning at four a.m. so she could watch him and his crew do the milking.

The two weeks flew by. On our last day we hiked up to the ridge that overlooked our farmhouse.

“How could you live here all your life and not want to paint this scene?” Maria asked. “The sun, the snow. Look how the light filters through the trees of the orchard, and that stream, sorry, I mean crick. It’s so goddamn alive.” She sketched for an hour and would have stayed longer, if I hadn’t convinced her that frostbitten fingers would not be good for her career.

The next day, when we were driving back to Cornell, she asked, “Do you think your parents like me?”

I looked over at her to see if she was joking. “Well, my mom thinks you ought to wear a bra, but I think Dad’s fine with your tits flopping around.”

She punched me in the shoulder. “I’m serious. They’re so nice. I want them to like me.” She rubbed my shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Do you think my mother would give you her special recipe for tuna casserole if she didn’t think you were worthy?”

She sat back to consider the possibility. “I guess not,” she said slowly. “And I promise to never make it. What about your father?”

I had to laugh. “Are you kidding? You’re an artist. He worships the ground you walk on.”

I grabbed her hand before she could punch me again. “You think my father’s Old McDonald, but he’s a Renaissance man. He made me take piano lessons, violin. One summer he had my mother drive me to Rochester to take ballet classes. I lived in mortal fear that my buddies would find out.”

“So where’s your violin.”

“After listening to me practice for six excruciating months he finally conceded I had no talent.”

Maria slid over next to me and put her hand in my crotch. “Not true. You’re a very talented lover.”

<>

Maria was talented. I knew that because at every party we went to one of her artist-friends would tell me. This news was usually delivered to me as though I was some sort of Neanderthal who had stumbled upon a precious artifact and had no idea of its value. I think they were afraid I might break her or something.

In the spring of our junior year Maria had a major exhibition at a new gallery off-campus. It was nearly two a.m. by the time we made it back to our apartment after the opening.

“Should we open a bottle of champagne to celebrate?” I teased. Maria was splayed on the bed, her arm covering her eyes. She had stripped off her black cocktail dress and was naked except for her bikini panties.

“My god, I can’t take all this being nice shit. My jaw hurts from smiling. Turn off the light and come here farm boy.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and untied my dress shoes. “Who was that skinny black dude?” I asked.

“You mean Baldwin? He teaches oil painting. Why?”

“He told me you should have applied for that fellowship in Florence. What was he talking about?”

Maria made a dismissive pffft sound. “He’s out of his mind. I don’t have a chance of getting into that program.”

“Why not? You’re really good, M. Everyone says so.”

“It’s three years. I’d have to start in the fall. I can’t do that.”

I believed Baldwin when he told me that the fellowship was a once in a lifetime chance that could make her career. At that moment, as I sat there on the edge of her bed taking off my clunky wing-tips, I had what her artist friends would probably call an epiphany. It wasn’t a blinding flash of light or anything like that, it was more like a switch clicked on in my brain and I knew, without any doubt, that Maria had to apply for that fellowship.

“Why don’t you go for it?” I asked.

She ignored me, scooted over to where I was sitting, and pressed her bare breasts into my back. “Come on Colin, don’t you want to show me how talented you are?”

“Baldwin said that you still had time.”

She shoved me away and folded her arms. “It’s a waste of time. Besides the Yankees just signed Catfish Hunter. I think we can win the series this year.”

“I bet you’ll get in.”

She stood up. “For Christ’s sake, Salomon Gutierrez is in that program. And Meulier. Fucking Anton Meulier. I’m not in their league.” She jumped off the bed and skipped over to the sink to brush her teeth.

“If you don’t apply I’m going to tell my father you don’t think you’re good enough.”

Maria stared at me in mock horror. “Oh god, don’t do that. He’ll give me that lecture about reaching for the stars.” She turned off the light and jumped back on the bed next to me, her head buried in the pillow. “Do you really think I should?”

“What do you have to lose?” I asked.

<>

Most of us have a day that we remember all our lives. I don’t mean those landmarks like Pearl Harbor or Kennedy’s assassination. I mean a day that changes the course of our life. The day that we take the road less traveled and it really does make all the difference. May 15, 1975 was my day.

Classes were over for the year and final grades had been posted. I was headed back to the apartment to tell Maria that I’d aced my International Econ final. When I opened the door I found her staring out the window, clutching a letter. She looked at me. There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

“I got in,” she said, handing me the letter.

I stared at the paper. I could see the words, but I couldn’t read them. I took a deep breath.

“That’s fantastic.” I really tried to smile, but I couldn’t make my face work right. It felt rubbery, numb.

“Come with me, Colin. Senior year abroad. It’ll be great. Your dad will be ecstatic.”

I wrapped my arms around her, the letter still clutched in my hand. My legs trembled.

“Will you marry me, Maria?” I asked. I had fantasized about asking her that question ever since the day we met, but this wasn’t how I imagined it. I could tell that at first she thought I was joking, but after she looked at me for a moment her expression softened. She didn’t want to hurt me.

“We don’t need some silly ceremony,” she said.

“I need it. I’ll never find someone I love more than you. I want to be the husband of Maria Pasquale. I can take care of you. Clean your paintbrushes. Remind you to eat. But I need to be your husband. I can’t just be your boyfriend.”

“You aren’t just my boyfriend,” she said, her voice breaking.

I loosened my grip on her and the letter slipped from my hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to ruin your day. We should be celebrating.”

“Colin, I love you. Please come with me.” She squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.

“I will, M. I promise. After graduation. It’s only a year. That will give you time to get settled in.” I kissed away her tears. “Maria, you are going to be the toast of Florence.”

On that day I was certain I had made the right choice. I was all caught up in the romantic bullshit that somehow I was setting her free. I wish I had a do-over because I’d follow her to Hell and back if I had another chance.

I knew she would thrive in Florence. And that her new world, like an inferno, would consume our relationship. We would never survive the separation. I was right. She left for Europe in July and in December she wrote to tell me that she had moved in with Anton Meulier.

Fucking Anton Meulier.

<>

A week before Thanksgiving, four weeks before I got Maria’s Anton Meulier letter, my buddies insisted I come with them to a party at the Deke house. The band was literally deafening and the place was packed with sweaty fraternity guys and their dates. It took me ten minutes just to make my way to the front of the bar. Drink in hand, I wheeled around and ran right into the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I spilled my drink on her.

“I’m sorry,” I said as she jumped back.

She laughed. “It’s okay, I’m used to it. Back in New Hartford the boys were always falling over themselves to bring me a drink.”

Karen was truly stunning. She had blonde hair and pale blue eyes and was wearing a very short black mini-dress that showed off her long, tanned legs. I bought her a drink and we went outside where we could talk.

She was a freshman, majoring in English. It was easy to talk to her. She was friendly and uncomplicated. When I walked her back to the dorm, I thought about kissing her, but I didn’t.

I ran into her again just before Christmas break, right after I got the letter from Maria. We shared a pitcher of beer at the Campus Inn. Karen asked if she could see my apartment. We made love on Maria’s old bed.

<>

Sometimes we determine the course of our lives by the actions we take and sometimes we just go along for the ride, like a leaf on the water. I chose not to follow Maria to Florence. A decision I came to regret, but at least a decision I made. With Karen I just jumped in the river and let the current take me.

In April I was accepted at Yale Law School. Two weeks later Karen told me she was pregnant. I asked her if she wanted to get married. It was more a question than a proposal, but she said yes. Then she started crying and told me how happy we were going to be.

We were married in June, ten days after I graduated. I gave up on law school and went to work for Karen’s father.

<>

It wasn’t like I woke up every day thinking about Maria. I wasn’t obsessed or anything like that. Karen was a good person. We were compatible. And Cassie, our daughter, was a beautiful diversion. Maybe I wasn’t the happiest guy on the block, but I wasn’t a bad husband. By the time Cassie graduated from NYU and took an advertising job in San Francisco, sometimes months would pass without me even thinking about Maria.

Then on New Year’s Day last year, Karen dragged me to a new gallery in SoHo. I was hungover from the firm’s big Millennium party and I had wandered into the back room of the gallery, looking for a restroom, when I saw the painting. I was staring at it, not believing my eyes, when the owner of the gallery walked up to me. She was rail-thin with dyed black hair, and was smoking a cigarette.

“Have you ever seen anything like that? Such emotion. And sadness,” she said with a nasally Bronx accent.

“Where did you get it?”

“Barcelona. On the Rambla. An American. She was selling everything, moving to the north coast with her boyfriend. Can you believe it? I bought it for a hundred dollars. Of course she didn’t want to sell,” she said as she raised her chin to blow her smoke towards the lofted ceiling.

“Didn’t want to sell?”

“Apparently it had sentimental value. She had a big argument with her boyfriend. I didn’t want to get in the middle of that scene so I said I’d changed my mind. But that evening he brought it to my hotel.” She shrugged her shoulders and turned up her palms. “What could I do?”

“Who’s the artist?” I asked peering at the canvas.

“Don’t know. She just signed it, ‘M’. I think it’s a scene from northern Italy.”

The smoke from her cigarette was burning my eyes and it was difficult to breathe. I thought my heart was going to pound through my chest. “No,” I whispered, shaking my head, “it’s not Italy. Excuse me, I need some air.”

I turned my back on Maria’s painting of the farmhouse in Clyde Falls on a gloomy, foreboding autumn day. I raced out of the gallery before anyone could see that I was crying.

<>

Up until that day I was doing okay. Things were in balance. My life wasn’t perfect, but whose is? I was making it work, but that goddamn painting was like the pebble that unleashes a landslide.

I had to find Maria. I went back to the gallery owner the next day and she gave me the name of a friend who worked for a major gallery in Barcelona. I called her that night. She didn’t know Maria but she gave me a list of smaller dealers that might have run into her. I started calling. I followed every lead. Finally, after three months, I found an art dealer who had purchased one of her paintings and thought she was living outside San Sebastian. He said she usually came south to Barcelona in the fall.

I sent him a five-thousand-dollar deposit for her next painting, and promised another five if he’d contact me as soon as she made an appearance. He thought I was a crazy American, but last week he called me. Maria’s boyfriend was bringing him three of her paintings. He was going to meet with him this Saturday, the 15th. I made a reservation to fly to Barcelona on Friday.

***

The boat I’m watching heads out to sea and disappears as the waitress approaches my table again. “More coffee, Mr. O’Keefe? Will you be having breakfast?”

“Please,” I say, moving the cup to my left side. “I’ll wait to order. My wife’s joining me.”

“Very good, sir. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

I look at my watch. Eight ten. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Usually when Karen comes into the city we meet at the end of the day for dinner, but today she had wanted to meet for breakfast at Windows. Married twenty-five years and she still didn’t understand that this is a damn inconvenient time for me to get away. My day begins at five and by eight the London markets are in their final hour and New York’s preparing to open.

From behind me I can hear Karen greeting the host. “Good morning, Maurice. It is a lovely day.” Her voice is clear, mellifluous.

I turn and watch as she glides towards our table, looking self-possessed, entitled. Her blonde hair is cut stylishly short and her pale-blue halter dress matches her eyes.

“Hi honey, sorry I’m late,” she brushes a kiss on my lips.

The host seats her to my left so we both have a view of the harbor. I hand her the menu. “I don’t have much time. I need to leave by eight forty-five,” I tell her.

She takes out her reading glasses and starts to flip through the pages. She always looks at every page and then orders the fruit plate.

“What are you going to have dear?” she asks.

“Eggs benedict.”

She reaches over and gently brushes her fingers through my hair. “Look at you. Not a touch of grey and you can still eat whatever you want. I’ll just have the fruit plate.”

I give the waitress our order. “What have you planned for today?” I ask.

She smiles and clasps her hands. “I have a fabulous day planned. A facial and manicure at the Waldorf at ten. Lunch in Central Park, and then I’m going to check out a new boutique in the west Village. I’d like to see the Gorky exhibition at MOMA if I have time. Maybe you can meet me there after work?”

“I don’t know. Depends how the day goes.”

“Mother called as I was leaving,” she says.

Karen’s mother is always calling. Those calls never bring good news.

“She said Father’s retirement is driving her crazy. He wants to run their home like a business.”

I try not to laugh. “Has he come up with a mission statement yet? Given your mom some measurable objectives. Told her how people don’t plan to fail, they fail to plan.”

“Stop it, Colin. This is hard for Mom.”

“I had an email from Cassie. She likes her new job.”

Karen puts down her coffee and grabs my hand. “Do you think you could take a week off so we could visit her? The Bay area is so beautiful in the fall.”

The servers arrive with our orders. It’s eight twenty-five. I slice the eggs benedict into bite-size pieces.

Karen, holding a forkful of honeydew in one hand, reaches over and grabs my wrist. “Slow down, dear. You don’t have to race out and milk the cows.”

I pull my hand a way and look at my watch. It’s eight twenty-eight.

“Can you get away for a week?” she asks again.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check my schedule.”

Karen pulls back in her chair. Now she’s annoyed. “Of course, you do,” she says with a slight shake of her head. She extracts a leather-bound planner from her purse. “Tomorrow we have concert tickets, and on Friday, the fourteenth, we have your reunion reception at the Midtown Club. A chance to see all your old Cornell classmates.”

I finish the eggs and throw my napkin on the plate. “I don’t want to go to that.”

“But it’s the twenty-fifth reunion – there should be some fresh faces - it’s a milestone.”

I sign the check and stand up to go. “There’s nobody I want to see. Look I have to leave now. You stay. Enjoy your coffee, I’ll check in with you later. Maybe we can do the Gorky thing.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Karen brings her hand up to cover her mouth. She starts searching through her bag. “I was reading the Cornell newsletter. Remember that girl you used to date? Marie? The artist?”

“What about her?” I sit back down.

“It was in the alumni section,” Karen says as she continues sifting through the contents of her bag. “Where is it? I know I brought it.”

“Karen, just tell me what the goddamn thing said.” My voice sounds strained.

Karen notices too. She looks at me, puzzled. “Well this actually happened a year ago. Can you believe it? You’d think Cornell could do a better job of keeping track of their alumni.”

I start to reach for my coffee cup, but my hands are shaking.

“She died. In Paris. They didn’t give details. You know, like they never do when someone commits suicide or dies from AIDS or a drug overdose. I am sorry, Colin. I know Marie was your friend.”

I slump back in my chair. “Maria. Her name was Maria. She was from Brooklyn,” I whisper.

It’s eight forty-two.

<>

Maria takes my hand as our boat races out to sea. The sun sparkles on the water and salt spray stings our faces. The sky is so blue it doesn't look real.

It is a heartbreaking blue.

<>

With the Cubs having traded away all of their star players their prospects for the remainder of the season look bleak. Not bleak, like "we might not make the playoffs," but bleak like "we might not win another game this year."

So during these difficult days for Cubs fans, I think it is important to maintain a historical perspective. I wrote this story back in 2008 when the Cubs were still eight years away from ending their 100 years of futility.

And Somewhere Men are Laughing…

August 1, 1984

Bob marches into my office, hands me his dog-eared copy of the Sun-Times, and plops down in the chair beside my desk. “Cubs are half game out. Mister Future Hall of Famer Steve Carlton is pitching for the Phillies. We’re going to this game.”

I look up at him and shake my head. “Can’t do it. Have to finish these expense reports.” I slide his paper back to him. “Why don’t you buy a real newspaper? Keep reading that paper and you’ll start believing Mondale actually has a chance.”

He makes a dismissive pffft sound. “The only thing the Tribune’s been right about is buying the Cubs.” He pushes the stack of expense statements in front of me and hands me a pen.

“Just sign the damn reports. Your auditors don’t have enough imagination to cheat on their expense statements. Come on we need to buy tickets. Did I mention Steve Carlton’s pitching?” As he stands up he holds out my suit jacket, which he’s been sitting on. “Nice. Such high quality polyester,” he says as he runs his thumb and forefinger along the lapel. “Can’t wrinkle this sucker. And those short-sleeve shirts?” He scrunches up his face. “You look like a goddamn engineer. Where’s your pocket protector?”

Bob’s a short, stubby Irishman, but he dresses like a Wall Street lawyer. “You’re going to sweat your ass off in that wool suit,” I tell him.

He smiles and opens his briefcase to show me his Cubs golf shirt and hat. “I’m always prepared. Remember that.”

We take the Red line to Addison . Monty the ticket-scalper wants thirty bucks for upper-deck reserved.

“We want field boxes,” Bob tells him. “I want to see the zits on Carlton ’s chin.”

Monty shuffles through his wad of tickets, “Here you go. Hundred, worth every penny,” he says.

“A hunny. Oh man, Pat’s going to kill me,” Bob says.

“No, I’m going to kill you. Come on, a hundred dollars?”

“Don’t be a pussy. Steve Carlton. I’ll buy the beer.”

“Yeah?” I hand Monty my money.

“The first round,” he says and then he laughs like Bela Lugosi.

We’re in the fifth row behind the Phillies dugout on the first base side. Carlton has no zits, just an overpowering fastball. I’m on the aisle, Bob’s sitting next to a tall, dark Egyptian guy named Adam. His girlfriend Jessica, a blonde with really nice breasts squeezed into a hot pink tube top, has brought Adam to his first baseball game. Bob will talk to anyone, anyplace, anytime, but the fact that Jessica’s a babe definitely makes Adam even more conversation-worthy.

“Okay,” he tells them, “you gotta have a beer. Can’t watch the ballgame without a beer.

Where’s the Old Style man?” Bob scans the crowd for his favorite vendor.

“There’s beer man,” Adam says pointing to the old man watching Carlton warm up.

“No, no, no, no. He’s selling Budweiser. That’s Cardinal beer. We need Old Style.” He looks around but there’s no Old Style vendor in sight. “Fuck it. Hey Bud man, four brewskis.” Bob has principles, but he’s flexible.

He spends the first two innings giving Adam and Jessica a short history of the Cubs eighty years of futility. Then the Cubs pitcher, Ruthven, gives up a single to Steve Carlton, scoring DeJesus from second. Bob’s arms shoot up in the air. “Two away and he can’t get the goddamn pitcher out.”

It gets worse in the third. Ruthven gives up back to back homeruns to Hayes and Matusek. Cubs are down three to nothing. Bob looks around, like he’s going to send someone into the game for Ruthven. “Hey Old Style. Four cold ones.” He waves a twenty dollar bill at a beer vendor who’s working the terrace boxes twenty rows up.

“We’ve still got half our beer left,” Jessica tells him.

“Sorry, but this is a beer emergency. We need to change our luck. Old Style. Now.” He pays for the round even though Adam tries to give him money. Me, I’m happy to let him pay.

Ruthven gets out of the inning. Cubs come to bat and Ryno hits the first pitch on to Waveland.

“Alright. That’s more like it.” Bob sits back in his seat and raises his beer cup like he’s responsible for this change of fortune. Same thing happens the next inning. Cey leads off with a homerun to center. Jessica and Adam high-five him. I think they actually believe Bob has special powers.

I suggest that the beer magic might need renewing. Bob gives me a look like I’m a beer-mooching weenie, but he doesn’t want to upset the beer karma so he springs for another round before the Cubs come to bat in the sixth.

It works. Moreland hits the first pitch into the right field bleachers and then Cey doubles and Ruthven knocks him in with a single. Cubs lead 4-3 and future Hall-of-Famer Steve Carlton is gone.

Cubs make it to the seventh inning stretch still clinging to the one run lead. We sing, “Take Me out to the Ballgame,” and somehow Bob manages to get on the other side of Jessica so the three of them can sway arm-in-arm to the song. I watch to make sure that Jessica’s boobs don’t pop out of her top when they all punch the sky for the refrain, “One, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game.” They don’t.

Bob takes his hat off and rubs his hands through his dark hair. He puts his hat on backwards, like a catcher. It’s his good luck position. “Come on Cubs. Just six more outs. First place. Christ, we haven’t been in first place since ’69.”

“You’re starting to believe again,” I warn him.

“Fuck you.”

“You know what happens when you let your guard down.”

“We’re going to win this game. Just watch.”

Phillies score a run in the top of the ninth to tie the game. Bob rips off his hat and crumbles it in his fists. He puts the twisted hat back on and holds his head in his hands with his eyes closed.

It’s the bottom of the ninth. I nudge Bob. “You’re not going to like this.” Jim Frey, the Cubs manager sends up weak-hitting Henry Cotto to pinch hit for Ruthven.

Bob goes into a rant. “Oh my God. Henry Cotto? Come on Frey. Can’t you do better than that? This guy can’t hit his weight…” Before he can finish his analysis of Henry’s shortcomings, Cotto smashes the first pitch into the gap for a double.

“Henry you are the man. Let’s go Cubs.” Bob pumps his fist in the air and high-fives Adam and Jessica.

Sandberg walks and then Gary Matthews hits an infield single to load the bases with nobody out. Everyone is on their feet screaming. The crowd starts chanting, “Jo-Deee, Jo-Deee, Jo-Deee.” Jody Davis, the Cubs’ clutch-hitting catcher is coming to the plate.

Davis is pumped up. The pitcher goes into his windup and Jody starts his swing. He’s a little ahead of the pitch, maybe three or four seconds. And he swings so hard it seems to temporarily knock all the air out of the park. The crowds goes, “Ohhhhh…” and then falls silent. But just for a moment. Jody steps out and takes a few practice swings and by the time he’s settled back in the batter’s box the crowd is in full-voice again. This time the Phillies pitcher grooves one for him, fastball right down main street. But Jody doesn’t swing.

Bob shakes his head and turns to me. “What the fuck is he doing? You could have hit that pitch.”

Murmurs of discontent percolate through the crowd. Jody steps out again, and during the brief silence as the crowd regroups, Bob cups his hands to his mouth and screams, “Jody. The ball. Hit the ball.” His voice sounds like he’s been gargling with gravel.

“Good solid baseball advice,” I tell him. He nods and folds his arms across his chest. On the next pitch Jody hits a towering flyball to deep center field and Henry Cotto races home with the winning run.

Bob screams, “Cubs win! Cubs win! He pounds me on the back. “We beat Steve Carlton. First place!” He high-fives Jessica and Adam one more time.

Nobody leaves the park. We’re all chanting, “First place,” and the guys in the centerfield bleachers are pointing at the flagpole where the team pennants are displayed according to the standings. The blue Cubs pennant is in second position beneath the orange flag of the hated Mets. A guy in a Cubs windbreaker crawls out the walkway to the flagpole. The crowd gets even louder as he reels in the pennants.

“Here it comes. Here it comes,” Bob yells in my ear. Slowly the string of pennants is sliding back up the pole. The Cubs pennant is on top. I can’t hear my own cheers. My throat hurts.

We sit back down and drink our beer -- it’s warm and flat. Tastes great. The sun toasts our backs. We say goodbye to Adam and Jessica, and even the diehard fans start heading for the exit ramp, but we stay. We have things to do, places to go, but not today. The Cubs are in first place and we have all the time in the world.

<>

During our thirty year friendship Bob and I went to over two hundred Cubs games. I can’t begin to explain why sitting in the hot sun on hard wooden seats for four hours watching the Cubs lose to the Padres or the Pirates or the Mets would be so much fun. And I don’t know why I looked forward to spending all those hours with a guy who was wrong about every issue from capital punishment to capital gains. I just know that I did.

Bob died two summers ago, on a hot Sunday morning as he was helping to pitch a tent for the weekend art fair in his Chicago suburb. We were supposed to go to the Cubs-Pirates game the next day.

I still go to the Cubs games and I’m really looking forward to this season. We’ve got a good team. I think this is going to be our year.

March 23, 2008

Yesterday I raced in the USAT National Sprint Championship in Milwaukee. It rained most of the night but the weather was perfect by the time the race started: cloudy and cool. I was ranked 17th and there were several All-Americans competing, but I thought that if I executed the plan that my coach, Heather Collins of Monarch Fitness Coaching developed I had a shot of finishing in the top 10 and making the podium (USAT has a really big podium).

Swimming has always been my weak link, but over the years I have gradually improved. My primary objective in the swim leg was to stay on course and stay close. There were fifty-two of us in the wave and I managed to stay with the crowd. Got bumped a few times, but no damage. I was 10th coming out of the water.

Transitions in triathlons are critical. In my last race in Tuscaloosa, I went into the second transition in 2nd place and left transition in 4th place. I didn’t want that to happen again. The day before the race, when I racked my bike I walked through several times the path I had to take to come out of the water and get to my bike. It’s a big transition area with over a thousand bikes so it is important to know exactly where your bike is. I was Row E, three racks in. When I got out of the water I ran hard for the 200 yards to the transition area. I passed three other swimmers on the way to the bikes. I had a good transition.

The bike course was mostly flat and only 12.7 miles. My goal was to really hit the bike hard. I wanted to average over 20 mph. The only “hill” on the course was an interstate highway bridge. I stayed in aero for the entire race, which is a major improvement for me – as in past years I haven’t done that. I covered the bike course at a 20.4 mph pace.

When I went out on the run course I was in 11th place. About half way through the 5K segment I passed another runner in my age group. Because of problems with my knee stemming from my last race (“overuse”) we had decided I needed to take off time from running. So, I didn’t run in May or June and then in July I started doing easy jogs. I didn’t do any speed work and that helped my knee to recover, but I knew that I would not have a fast run. I finished at a pace of 8:26.

I wasn’t sure where I had finished, but Suzanne had been tracking me on her phone and she told me I was 10th. It was a great feeling. When I started racing, I had a goal to finish in the top 10 for my age group in the Triathlon National Championship. The closest I had come before this year was 18th. It was a real thrill to finally achieve that goal and get to participate in the Awards Ceremony.

Since 2009 I have qualified and competed in USAT National Championships for Olympic and Sprint Distance Triathlons in Tempe, Cleveland, Omaha, Milwaukee, Burlington, and Tuscaloosa.

This year the championships are returning to Milwaukee and the races are scheduled for the weekend of August 7-8. I have enjoyed traveling to all of those cities – the local community is always very welcoming and the USAT does an excellent job of organizing the races.

But by far my favorite venue is Milwaukee. It’s a beautiful setting on the waterfront next to the Art Museum and it’s only a ninety minute drive. This year, after a dozen years of training me, my coach Heather Collins of Monarch Fitness Training will be able to actually watch me compete in the championship race.

When I started competing in triathlons back in 2005 my aspirational, somewhat wishful goal, was to one day finish in the top 10 in my age group in one of the triathlon national championships. While I have achieved that goal in the Duathlon Championships (no swimming) there are more competitors in the triathlon championships.

These races attract a lot of great athletes. My first championship (in Tuscaloosa) I didn’t finish the race. Since then I have gradually improved my showing and have made it into the top 20 a couple times, but never the top 10.

But this year, I am once more the youngest in my age group of 70 to 74. I am going to only compete in the Sprint Distance race which may give me an advantage over those athletes who compete both days. There are 73 athletes in that age group racing this year (including 8 All-Americans). I am ranked 17th, so I will have to have a very good race to finish in the top ten, but I have a shot.

Stay tuned.