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"I was led to believe, Ms. Johnson," J. Stanton Kennedy says, in his loftiest Boston Brahmin tones, "that there would be a hospitality vehicle of some sort – a trailer perhaps – that would offer a modicum of comfort in which to conduct our discussion." "I am sorry, Mr. Kennedy, believe me," Valerie Johnson soothes, "but this all came up so suddenly, your visit here, and all. We did try to rent an RV, but there just wasn't enough time." Or money, she thinks. But he doesn't have to know that. "And please, call me Val. Everybody does." Kennedy shifts his weight as if he's trying to get comfortable. He's wearing a pinstriped navy-blue suit that Valerie assumes is custom-made; he sports a pale blue regimental stripe tie with a Windsor knot that fits snugly into the collar of his white button-down shirt. It occurs to Valerie that, no matter how much Kennedy shifts, he's unlikely to ever feel comfortable on the hard, wooden bleachers. As Race Director, Valerie knows all too well that she should be coordinating the activities of her staff, keeping a watchful eye on the race and all of its intricately related activities. But just two short days ago she had received an urgent call from the chairman of the American Triathletic Council: J. Stanton Kennedy plans to attend your race, Val; please make sure that he's well taken care of. Pull out all the stops, give him the VIP treatment. We're counting on you, Val. Kennedy looks up at the skies, and Valerie's not sure if he's worried about the weather or if he's just bored. "If it starts to rain again," she says, "we can duck into the admin tent, over in the Square. I thought you might want to sit out here for a while and watch some of the winners come in. But if you're uncomfortable..." "I was here for the marathon a few months ago," Kennedy observes, as if to counter the suggestion that he's incapable of feeling comfortable in such an undignified venue. He glances around, notes his position in relation to the library behind him and the Old South Church across the street. "In nearly the very same location, I believe. There were quite a few more spectators for that event, of course." He smiles, and Valerie thinks that she spots a hint of a twinkle in his eye. "No disrespect intended," he adds. "This is our first year," Valerie points out, trying not to sound defensive. "I think that using the marathon route for the run leg of the triathlon was a brilliant idea – and I can say that because I didn't get involved until after the course was laid out. But it means that we're constantly being compared to the marathon, which is unfortunate. I mean, we knew all along that we weren't going to draw as many people as the marathon. I'm sure that a lot more people would have shown up if the weather had been better..." "And if you hadn't lost your biggest sponsor," Kennedy adds. "Well, that certainly didn't help," Valerie admits, surprised that Kennedy was interested enough to have done any research at all. "When Sam Adams pulled out, that was the end of our advertising budget. And we had to downsize our prize money quite a bit, so some of the pros backed out. But look..." – she points down Boylston Street – "here comes one of the pros right now, that's Allen Marcus, very popular guy." As if in confirmation, the small crowd in the bleachers begins to clap and shout encouragement to the approaching runner, who beams and holds his arms high in the air as he crosses the finish line. Kennedy graces Allen Marcus with a bored glance. He points to the race clock. "Does that mean," he asks, "that Mr. Marcus has been racing for nearly nine hours?" "Exactly," Valerie says, hoping that Kennedy doesn't know that the clock has malfunctioned several times during the course of the race, and that the time it displays, while probably a good approximation, is anything but exact. "Actually, that's a decent time for fifth place, maybe a little slow, but not bad. Some of the women should start coming in pretty soon. I wouldn't be surprised to see..." "Listen, Ms. Johnson..." Kennedy glances at the gold Patek Philippe that adorns his wrist. "I know that you were asked to try to convince me to press for the addition of the... what do you call it, the long-distance triathlon..." "Ironman distance. Two-point-four-mile swim, hundred-twelve-mile bike, twenty-six-point-two-mile run..." "Yes, the Ironman-distance triathlon, I understand that AmTri would like to see the Ironman-distance triathlon become an Olympic event. But I must tell you, in all honesty, that the chance of that happening anytime soon is exactly zero. For a variety of reasons." "Such as?" Kennedy stares back at her for a few seconds as if the question has annoyed him. "First of all," he says, "I'm new to this job, and I'm still feeling my way around. Frankly, I'm less than eager to undertake any new projects until I have a firmer grasp of the intricacies of my situation." "Oh, of course, I didn't mean to imply..." "Secondly, from what I understand, most triathletes are from the US, Australia, New Zealand, western Europe – in other words, none of the top triathletes are from the old Soviet bloc, which means that trying to add yet another version of the triathlon to the Olympics raises complicated international geopolitical considerations, issues that are well beyond the scope of our discussion here today." He treats Valerie to a fleeting and patronizing smile. "And finally," he adds, "the triathlon is already an Olympic event, of course, albeit at a much shorter distance. Many athletic events remain totally unrepresented in the Olympics, at any distance. Some of those events are clamoring for admission. Surely we should consider them before we try to add an additional variety of an existing event, wouldn't you agree?" "I don't think you'd feel that way if you had more of an appreciation for the history of the triathlon," Valerie says, trying not to sound as annoyed as she feels. "The Ironman distance was the original triathlon distance, and over the years it's remained extremely popular..." "So I see," Kennedy says, glancing around at the sparse crowd. Valerie's eyes flash. "That's not fair," she says. "This is a brand new race, and we're having some problems..." "Yes, yes, I know," Kennedy says dryly. "The weather. The loss of your sponsor. The diminution of your prize money. The withdrawal of the professional triathletes." Valerie feels herself starting to bristle, but makes a determined effort not to let it show. This is a complete waste of my time, she thinks, but getting upset about it will do no good at all. "Don't take this the wrong way," she says, "but I have to tell you that I'm more than a little puzzled about why they named a banker to head up the USOC. It's obvious to me that you have no appreciation for the effort that goes into staging an athletic event." There, she thinks, that feels better. She smiles. "No disrespect intended," she adds. "If the Olympic Committee had been able to keep its financial house in order," Kennedy shoots back, "I'd have been the first to agree that my background for this position was less than ideal. But the fact is that I've had a strong interest in athletics for most of my life." Kennedy appears to be more than a little agitated. With some satisfaction, Valerie realizes that she's struck a nerve. "During my undergraduate days at Harvard, I often cut classes to attend Red Sox games. In fact, I was instrumental in arranging Copley National's investment in the team. And the daughter of one my closest friends happens to be a world-class athlete. Her name is Jillian Kendal. Perhaps you know of her?" "Jillian Kendal? The same Jillian Kendal who won the Olympic marathon four years ago?" "Precisely," Kennedy says, with unmistakable pride. "The same Jillian Kendal who won the Olympic marathon four years ago." "That Jillian Kendal?" Valerie arches an eyebrow and points helpfully to the finish line, where a tall, slender woman with shoulder-length blond hair and a winning smile runs through the yellow tape, her arms outstretched in victory. Kennedy rises to his feat. He stares at the blond woman who has just run past the finish line, then he looks at Valerie, then he looks back at the blonde again. For a few moments he seems confused; then he smiles and visibly relaxes. "Precisely," he says. "That Jillian Kendal."
Next: Chapter 9 (University Park) [ Transition Home Page | Transition Blog ] Transition: The OnLine Triathlon Adventure Novel
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