The incessant pounding of rubber soles to pavement thumped focus. Then determination.
I can do this. I will do this
, each stride seemed to say.
I must do this
, thought the runner,
why I don't know, but I won't rest until the training is done and the race is complete.
The sweltering heat was relentless. Lelanni wanted it that way. Anyone can train at six in the morning before the torturing sun is high in the sky.
That which doesn't kill me will only make me stronger
. The twelve ounces of water that was all she could comfortably manage to carry was long gone, leaving behind the plastic bottle that now dangled from her waistband, bouncing against her bronzed and well-toned thigh.
She had resisted the water as long as she could, as the beads of sweat from the bottle oozed a refreshing coolness down her cheeks when she'd rub it across her face and through her hair. She'd left her University of Georgia ballcap at home, safety giving way to vanity. Hot as it was, she enjoyed the tickle of her jet black hair over the top of her back, training herself to sense a shiver through her body. The shiver was an illusion, for sure, but a welcome distraction from the elements.
Fit and muscular, Lelanni did not have the typical body of a distance runner. She was tall, more like a tennis player, her 125 pound frame just enough to make her knees and ankles ache from all the pounding her training required.
Nothing 400 milligrams of ibuprofen couldn't keep under control
.
A little pain's not going to stop me.
Focus. Determination. Maybe when she was finished with the race she'd tattoo those two words on her arm as a personal reward. And maybe cross-stitch them on a pillow, too. If she knew how.
Her favorite route, the hilliest and most challenging one of course, took her through a neighborhood typical of unbridled yuppie growth, burgeoning thirtysomething affluence, and suburban sprawl. The "starting from the 400s" two-story transitional homes each sat on a fifth of an acre, their close quarters accentuating their sameness, contrary to the production builder's insistence that the three different floor plans and multiple elevations offered "variety" and "uniqueness".
An uberconservative homeowner's association did its part, as each home was painted in one's favorite shade of white, crème, or beige on three sides, with red brick covering the front of each. Most driveways sported a late-ish model minivan or SUV, mostly tan or white, with an accompanying Camry/Accord/Maxima, as the garages for which they were intended bulged with garden tools, riding mowers, bicycles, and unchecked accumulation. In short, Funderburke Farms looked much like the two dozen or so Kids and Cul-de-Sac neighborhoods that had sprung up in the area over the past five years.
Lelanni barely noticed the dearth of color "On the Farm", nor did she notice the man distributing the homeowner's monthly newsletter bearing that name as he drove on the wrong side of the street inserting the "never-to-be-read-by-most" two-pager into the cubby beneath each identical mailbox. She made a wide circle around the somewhat out-of-place yellow Ford Fusion with the "SGLNLVNIT" vanity plate, Peace is Patriotic bumper sticker, and "Alzheimers Awareness" ribbon magnet, meeting the gaze of its driver, a dark-haired fellow with a goatee who looked perhaps a size or two too big for his vehicle. She looked away at once, focusing instead on the incline that was Funderburke Parkway, but felt the driver's gaze boring through her black-short clad ass like a phaser on stun.
Creep,
she thought.
Got no time for you or your lame-assed sled
. Lelanni quickened her pace, taking the hill with a bit more ease than her first attempt two months ago when she first began her training, well on her way to a personal best for this twelve-mile training route.
********************
His cock was throbbing before he even pulled into the driveway.
God, I can't believe how horny I am lately
, he thought.
Well, come to think of it, maybe I can.
Will watched the garage door slowly make its way up the tracks, revealing his employer's own pile of garage crap. He briefly pondered the "just enough room" space the garage afforded his modest little ride, but turned his attention instead to the pressure in his drawers.
She was absolutely gorgeous. Not everyday a dark-skinned Athena comes blazing through this lily-white neck of the woods.
Visions of her round bottom consumed him, her black mesh running shorts revealing the bottoms of her ass cheeks, a sexy yet start contrast to her muscular machine-like legs. Jacking off in broad daylight was hardly his M.O., but sometimes cheap thrills were better than no thrills at all. His pecker popped right out of his pants, anxious for daylight so it seemd, as his hand moved up and down its rigid shaft. As he caressed himself with loving, care, his all-too familiar Pavarotti ringtone blared, the caller ID from his phone revealing nothing.
Dammit.
Will grabbed his phone off the passenger seat with his right hand and thumbed the rollover button, half-covering his dick with his left.
That call's just going to have to wait.
He felt a twinge of panic shoot through him as he saw the mailman's car in the rearview mirror, not thinking to put the phone down and fumbling with his pants one-handed.
"Ouch!" The zipper caught pubic hair as he frantically tried to close his pants, almost succeeding.
"Hi, Will!" He heard the muffled voice of his next door neighbor through the glass as she ran down her driveway to fetch the mail.
Since when is SHE home during the day?? I hope she doesn't come over here,
he thought, though his erection was all but gone.
I'll just pretend I didn't hear her,
which wasn't a bad plan, save for having already turned his head in the direction of her voice.
As he saw his neighbor scurry back into the house, he had to laugh at himself.
Next time I'll wait until I'm inside. Much safer that way. Well, at least there's nothing to clean up.
********************
Tuesday
Twelve miles. Every weekday. Same bat-time. Same bat-channel. Eighteen to twenty on Saturday, with Sunday being a day of rest. Tuesday was yet another welcome scorcher, the black pavement rippling in her sight. For most the cheery Funderburke Farms pansied and petuniaed brick entrance said "Welcome", or "Buy your next home here". To Lelanni it was a harbinger to Jellyleg Hill. Without the adrenaline from yesterday's mild creepout, she might have wilted. Instead, with a new confidence she attacked the hill, sucking in whatever aerobic nourishment she could from the heavy, humid air and paraphrasing silly lines from
A Few Good Men
, which had been on TNT the night before.
You want me on that Hill! You NEED me on that Hill!
You can't HANDLE the Hill!
********************
He was ready for her. Perhaps Bronzed Lightning would strike twice. He'd grabbed the kitchen marshboard, long replaced as the keeper of the to-do list by PDAs, and had scribbled
ALOHA
with dry-erase markers. A different color for a different letter. Less threatening if it had an artsy touch to it, ya see? The smiley didn't hurt, either. As he saw her reaching the apex of Funderburke Parkway, he sauntered outside, holding his makeshift greeting high over his head, accompanied by his best shit-eating grin.
She caught the sign out of the corner of her eye, making no movement that acknowledged the effort to its maker.
ALOHA? Damn,
she thought.
Good guess.
********************
Wednesday
Some people just need to get a life. Even if he is a threat, which I'm pretty sure he's not, I think I could a) outrun his tired ass or b) kick his tired ass if I had to. Doesn't he have anything better to do?
Her thoughts distracted and annoyed her.
Focus! But how can I? Why would a perfect stranger stand outside his house with a sign that says
I'm Will, what's your name?
Sheesh, might be time to scope out a new set of hills and cul-de-sacs.
********************
Thursday
Jellyleg Hill better be worth the aggravation. Looks like I won't be changing my route, and I know he'll be there again. Damn. Focus! Just continue to ignore him and he'll stop.
Wishful thinking.
For a thrill, dial 1-800-555-WILL
. God, that's stupid. Lelanni unwittingly picked up her pace.
Is that a lump in his pants? That's so gross.
********************
Friday
"It was 19 and 61. That Mantle, he was a horse. Sweetest swing you'd ever see from either side of the plate. It was Maris's year, but everyone wanted to see the Mick break Ruth's single season record," the old man said.
Single-season record? More like broken record
.
But we're having a good day today
, Will thought, keeping his hand under Mr. Tyler's chin in the event his charge dropped his water glass. The shakes were becoming a bit more pronounced, the early stage of Parkinson's adding insult to injury.
"Damn, those boys could hit," Mr. Tyler continued. "These players today got it too easy. Can't imagine what those M&M boys...that's what they called Mantle and Maris in those days...the M&M boys, would be making today. And they'd be earning it, too."
"They'd be making A-Rod money for sure," Will's canned response whenever the conversation meandered to All Things Pinstripes, which was about every day.
"I took Francis to her first ballgame in '61. Proposed to her during the seventh inning stretch. We've been hand in hand ever since," a sweet smile smeared across the old man's face. The late Mrs. Tyler was anything but in Chadford Tyler's reality, but that was OK at this point.
"Let me give you a piece of advice, Will," Mr. Tyler continued. "Don't ever let a day go by without doing a good deed..." His sweet smile become a tad naughty, his trembling index finger pointed right at Will's face.
"...and never pass up an opportunity to kiss a pretty girl."
Will mentally mouthed the words as Mr. Tyler spoke, but still delighted in the charming old bastard's recurring advice.
Pedro Say Just 20 Miles to South of the Border
. Let's try the goofball route on for size today.
********************
Don't laugh. Don't even roll your eyes. God, what does he do all day? If I'm the most important person in his pathetic little life there's a real problem here. That was kinda funny, though. I hate those stupid Pedro signs. Focus, woman, focus.
********************
Saturday
