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As she rolls up to the transition area, she presses lightly on both brake levers, slowing her bright yellow Falconi GoldenGirl Racer to a smooth glide. She scans the dull metal bike racks that line Ash Street in front of the Common. Where's her slot? She did a walk-through just a few hours ago, but now she can't seem to remember where she's supposed to go. She stands on the pedals, wiggles her knees, stretches her legs. Wayward strands of sweat-damp blond hair flutter out from under the edge of her helmet. She swings her head from side to side, searching for something – anything – that looks even vaguely familiar. A lone figure standing on the grass in front of the war memorial across the street from the Common catches her gaze. He appears to be draped in some kind of robe, a flowing white garment with layers and folds that flutter in the spring breeze. His face is ruddy red; his head is ringed with tufts of dark curly hair. He smiles mysteriously, as if he knows a wondrous secret, something that no one else has ever known. But it's his deep-set jet-black eyes that catch her. They burn into her, they take her breath away, she can see nothing else. They sparkle with an unworldly glow. Now they're on fire and she's being sucked into the flames... they're so warm, so inviting... so terrifying... "LOOK OUT!" The shout comes from behind her, but she instinctively swings her head forward and sees that she's about to roll into the back of a shirtless man in lime-green shorts who has already dismounted and who is trotting his bicycle into the transition area. She squeezes both brake levers as hard as she can and swerves sharply to the side. As her bike screeches to a sudden stop, she twists her feet clear of the pedals, swings a leg over the bar, and hops off onto the pavement. "That was close," she hears someone say. She looks to the side; a Race Marshall catches her eye and points to the ground at her feet. When she looks down, she sees that the toes of her sneakers are mere inches from the dismount line. That was close. But someone is calling her name – a familiar-looking man, tall and gaunt, wearing a sky-blue windbreaker, he stands on the other side of the orange plastic-weave fence that surrounds the transition area, he's waving his arms over his head, but her vision has gone all fuzzy, and she's not sure, but it looks like... Yes, of course, it's Jago, how could she not have recognized him? Now that he has her attention, the man in the blue jacket points urgently with both hands to a nearby bike rack, as if he's guiding a plane to its gate. After a few seconds, she realizes that the signal is meant for her. She looks down at feet again, as if she's somehow hesitant to cross the dismount line and formally enter the transition area. But then she shakes her head sharply, as if to clear it, and begins to walk her bike slowly toward Jago and her slot in the bike rack. "Jillian, are you all right?" Jago glances furtively at his watch, then back at Jillian. He leans on the fence as if to get just a few inches closer to her. "What happened back there?" Lifting the front of her bicycle, she carefully hooks the aerobars over the rail. When she turns to look at Jago, her eyes are cloudy, distant. "That man," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the war memorial without looking back at it. "That man over there..." "What man? There is no one there, Jillian. As you can see." He speaks crisply, with a vague hint of a continental accent. "Get your head back in the race, will you? There are three ahead of you." He claps his hands a few times as if trying to establish some kind of cadence for her. "Move," he says. And then again, with more urgency: "Move! Move!" With exaggerated deliberateness, as if she's performing complex tasks that require enormous concentration, she pulls off her helmet and shakes out her hair. She pulls a bright yellow Falconi RaceTowel from a bright yellow Falconi RaceSack and spreads it carefully over a patch of pavement. "Three?" Jago's words have finally registered. "The twins and... and who else? Carolyn?" "Carolyn DNF'd some time ago. The twins, yes, and someone else." He frowns. "You look pale. Why do you move so slowly? Is something wrong?" She sits on the towel, pulls off her bike shoes, rolls the sweat-soaked socks off her feet. "Someone else? Who?" She sneaks a quick glance in the direction of the war memorial. As Jago had said, no one is there. "I did not recognize her. Someone new, I think." He shrugs. "It is not important. But please, you must move faster. You are late enough already. What is wrong with you?" "What's wrong with me?" She sounds puzzled, as if she's asking Jago instead of answering him. But then something flashes in her eyes, and the color rushes back into her cheeks with a nearly audible whoosh. And when she says it again – "What's wrong with me?" – she's not puzzled, she's angry. "Jillian, please, not so loud..." "I swam right into a goddamn surfboard, did you know that?" She glares at Jago, as if it were somehow his fault. "Some asshole lifeguard paddled right out in front of me, and BLAM..." She smacks the heels of her hands together for emphasis. "Yes, I saw," Jago says. "I was quite concerned. You recovered admirably." She ignores his sarcasm. "Yeah, well, did you know that I took two wrong turns? I got lost twice, Jago. Whoever marked the bike course is a fucking moron." "Which does not change the fact that you are in fourth place and you are sitting here doing nothing, Jillian. Now stop whining and start moving, will you please? And watch your language." She stares back at him, framing a reply, then she shrugs and begins to dry her feet on the towel. "How far are they ahead of me? How did they look?" She slips her feet into a fresh pair of socks. "The twins..." – Jago glances at his watch – "...less than ten minutes. The other... oh, twenty-five minutes, perhaps half an hour..." "Half an hour! Jesus, how can that be?" "For God's sake, Jillian, keep moving. She looked tired. You can run her down." But then his eyes dart away, just for an instant, and she knows that he's lying. The new girl, Jillian thinks, the one who passed through the transition area half an hour ago, she didn't look tired at all. And Jago thinks she's going to beat me. Jago actually thinks I'm going to lose. I can run anybody down, she thinks, with absolute confidence. Anybody. But, Jesus, half an hour... And Jillian is so lost in her thoughts that she doesn't notice that someone is approaching until the woman in the orange and lavender warm-up suit leans over the fence, points a microphone at her, and calls out her name...
Next: Chapter 2 (Hopkinton) [ Transition Home Page | Transition Blog ] Transition: The OnLine Triathlon Adventure Novel
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