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Even as she opens the door and steps into the van, Leida Andersen is already firing questions. "How fast was her first mile? Did you get the time?" No answer. "Where's Michelle?" Leida glances behind her, as if she might have missed the presence of a third person in the cramped van. "Damn it, Jimmy, she knows she's supposed to be here." No answer. "We have to leave soon, don't we? What time is it? When do we need to be back in Boston?" No answer. Leida sighs and starts again. "Jimmy? Her first mile? Did you get the time?" The large round man who earlier had wielded a video camera now sits at the back of the van, facing a bank of monitors. Adjusting rows of dials on a crowded control panel, he studies the images of athletes and spectators that move through the various screens. "Look," he finally says as he flips a switch. "Look, there's you trying to interview Jill Kendal in the middle of the goddamn race." He points to one of the screens, and there's Jillian in the transition area, changing her shoes, rolling her eyes. The big man hoots derisively. "Sometimes you got more balls than brains, Andersen. Good thing you got me around to look out for you." Looking over Jimmy's shoulder, Leida examines the video image dispassionately. "Jimmy," she says evenly, "did you get the time?" She stares at the screen as the camera follows Jillian out of the transition area. Then, again, "Jimmy..." "Not that you asked," Jimmy volunteers, "but if you'da tried to interview me while I was in the middle of a goddamn twenty-thousand-dollar race, I'da punched your fuckin' lights out, myself." Patiently, as if she were explaining a difficult point to an especially slow child, Leida begins yet again. "Jimmy..." "Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, lemme see, it's right here, somewhere." He rummages through the papers that lay in scattered heaps on the console. "Well, goddamn, I just wrote it down a minute ago. Here... no, hang on..." He sifts through the clutter for several more seconds, then he abruptly swivels around in his chair to face Leida. Their eyes meet and lock. "Just how bad do you want it, Andersen?" he leers. Reaching for the top of his jeans, he acts as though he's going to unzip his fly. Leida doesn't flinch. "That really is pretty disgusting," she says, without apparent rancor. "Even for a pig like you." Jimmy's eyes flash with anger. For an anxious moment, Leida wonders if perhaps she's gone too far. Don't react, she tells herself. Don't give him the satisfaction of knowing that he's getting to you. It'll only encourage him. But then Jimmy's eyes soften. "Hey, just kidding," he says. "Lighten up, will ya? Where's your sense of humor?" With his eyes still glued to hers, he reaches behind him, grabs a scrap of paper, and holds it up for her inspection. "This what you're looking for?" She snatches the note from his hand. "Kendal, mile 1, 6:26." She looks up. "Six twenty-six – is that good?" "You're asking me?" Jimmy snorts and swivels back to the control panel. "Hey, lady, you're the one who's supposed to know this shit. You're the... producer." He spits out the last word as if it's especially distasteful. "Hi, guys." Noises from the race drift into the van as the door swings open to admit a slender young woman dressed in flowered shorts and a white tank top. She closes the door; the van is quiet again. "Sorry I'm late," she says, smiling sunnily. "I was trying to..." "Michelle!" Leida whirls to confront the new arrival. "Where the hell have you been?" Michelle's smile droops. "I... I was trying to line up an interview with the race director. I thought that's what you wanted me to do. But she's..." "Is six twenty-six good?" Leida interrupts. "Six twenty-six?" Michelle glances at Jimmy for help, but he just shrugs and looks bored. "I don't..." "Jill Kendal ran the first mile in six minutes and twenty-six seconds," Leida says, without trying to hide her annoyance at having to explain herself. "Is that a good time?" "It... it would be real good for anybody else." Michelle eyes Leida warily, as if expecting her to spring some kind of trap. "I don't think I ever ran a six-and-a-half-minute mile. Not in an Ironman-distance race, anyway. But Jill's pretty much in a class by herself, you know? She'll be doing six-minute miles easy when she hits her stride. Better than that on a good day. Does that... is that what you wanted to know?" But Leida's focus has already moved on. Now, she points to a screen where the camera, panning over the transition area, has captured the fleeting image of a lanky man in a sky-blue windbreaker, glancing at his watch. "Wait, wait, back it up, Jimmy... freeze it right there, that's good. That's the guy who attacked me. Who is he, do you know?" "That's Jill's coach, Jago Danziger." Michelle is clearly relieved to know the answer; a tentative smile begins to return. "He's Russian or something. He defected... gee, I don't know, a long time ago, maybe fifteen years, something like that. Don't you remember? It was all over the news and... He attacked you? Did you say that Jago Danziger attacked you?" "He said something to Jill about three women being ahead of her, didn't he?" Leida glances at Jimmy for confirmation, but the big man studiously ignores her. "I only saw two, those twins, the German girls, what's their name..." "Kiergaard. Britte and Kristin Kiergaard. And they're not German, they're..." "Right, them. And who else?" "I don't know." Once again, Michelle's smile begins to fade. "I mean, I saw her, but I didn't recognize her. She's not listed in the program. Must be a late entry. I... I'm sorry. I wasn't paying much attention to the women. You told me to concentrate on the men, remember?" "If you say so." "You told me to concentrate on the men's race," Michelle insists. "You said that the men's race was the story." Images of Jillian Kendal dance across a dozen screens. Jillian Kendal wades out of the water. Jillian Kendal leans her bicycle into a sharp curve. Jillian Kendal pulls off her helmet and shakes out her golden locks. Jillian Kendal waves back over her shoulder as she trots out of the transition area. "I was wrong." Leida speaks softly, in a nearly reverential whisper. "I was wrong. There's the story." On a large screen, in the center of a row of monitors, Jillian Kendal, Golden Girl of the triathlon, stares back at them, fists clenched, thumbs up, confidence streaming from every pore. And although no sound accompanies the flickering image, it's easy to read Jillian's lips as she commands: Watch me.
Next: Chapter 4 (Natick) [ Transition Home Page | Transition Blog ] Transition: The OnLine Triathlon Adventure Novel
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