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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504914574 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 06/17/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 508 |
| File size: | 933 KB |
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"The Runner"
By Lloyd Wendell Cutler
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2015 Lloyd Wendell CutlerAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-1477-2
CHAPTER 1
The Longest Day
I'd survived the horror of the slave ship,
so this beautiful place lent a measure of relief,
as I felt the chains of depression loosen
around my wrists and ankles.
Wise Mac
"Thank you very much, sir and have a nice evening. Be careful out there with those slick roads," she said. The man picked up his bags, smiled friendly-like, then walked out the door. Flickering house lights signaled the end of the day.
Rain, accompanied by a cold blustery wind, blew in sheets across the darkened empty parking lot, the crescent moon disappearing and reappearing intermittently beyond the vision of moving cloud formations just over the horizon south of Sunrise Mountain. It was a beautiful sight really, if one were a storm watcher. A very obese young woman, well, still young if you measured from the end backwards, not so young anymore if you were a college student, emerged from Target with her friend, April. Their next stop would be at Denny's for a huge after-work late night dinner. I don't know what April wants, but I am looking forward to the Sampler, a Double Classic Cheeseburger with fries, and a Strawberry Shake, thought the moonfaced woman as they trudged the rain-soaked parking lot to their cars.
Later that evening she made her way home via Circle K where fresh doughnuts and cold milk awaited. By the time she found her bed, she regretted the last meal she would ever enjoy, was coughing up acid, but headed straight for snacks and ate again anyway. It vaguely occurred to her that she may have already set herself a day back since it was after midnight. She felt a wash of fear set in with the realization that her promised day was on the horizon. A fitful night's sleep, made worse by a painful acid cough, was indicative of her conundrum, and yet soon enough morning arrived.
Trisha Jean Martin was faced with a cold reality. For her it was time to pick a plan, lay down a program, time for the lady to start her engines; day one was here. By virtue of the agreement she had made with herself she would have to pick something and get started today. Trisha was just plain out of excuses. The doctor said it was OK. In fact, he had been begging her for years to get moving. There would to be no relief in the exercise category either. Her doctor was mandating some sort of workout program and she had promised him — and herself — that today was D-day. It is vital that you do not let him down, she thought. At 30 years of age, Trisha Martin, who yesterday had weighed 279 pounds, was slipping not so gently into the longest day of her life and didn't even know it.
The phone rang. Her mother was on the line suggesting they meet at Lucille's for lunch and a nice stroll through The District flushing what little money or credit Trisha had right down the drain. Perhaps, thought Trisha, I should start tomorrow, no? NO! Cold sweat broke out on her forehead; her heart quickened, and she got a bit sick to her stomach, trying to think of something to say. The fatigue was terrible. To add insult to injury she was starving and it seemed as though she may not live to make lunch anyway. There was one person in the family who was even bigger than Trisha and that was her mother. She loved food. Mom hates diets, Trisha reminded herself.
"Mother, today is the first day of my new plan, the one I have been talking about; I promised my Doctor and do not intend to let him down. You know I can't go to Lucille's. There is nothing there for me. It is all fattening, plus, I have to start some sort of exercise program, Mom. I know you hate ..."
"Oh, don't be silly, Trisha. I support you all the way. I am your mother, after all. I mean, diets aren't for me, they don't work, not for us anyway, but you need to find that out on your own ..."
Trisha's mother rattled on and on the way she had for years. What seemed most offensive was that she should want this for her youngest the most, but she doesn't, or so Trisha thought.
Maybe Mom is trying to sabotage me. If I lose weight a man might want me and then she won't have me to go off gorging food with. Mother is so selfish she can't support me, the support that I desperately need today. First there was the resentment blossoming into doubt, and it was followed by a kernel of fear. Trisha slipped ever so gently into the trap she had been trying to avoid.
"OK, Mom. See you at 11:30 just outside Lucille's." She'd caved again ... for the zillionth time. Good Lord, It was barely breakfast time on the first day. As Trisha walked away from the phone she thought of breakfast. Pop a few frozen waffles into the toaster, drench them in butter, drown them in syrup, swig a 32 oz glass of ice cold milk, eat a banana for health, and reload later — or not. Instead she poured a cup of coffee, black for the first time in memory, sat down on the couch and glanced at the television. Oh gosh, a diet commercial.
"... With Hydroxycut you experience clinically proven weight loss thanks to a powerful, well — researched primary ingredient complex that can help you lose more weight than when dieting alone ..." Click ... "Weight Watchers is simple, satisfying and smart" ... Click. ... "Get maximum results for effective weight loss with Jenny Craig and Metabolic Max" ...
What was going on here? There is weight loss on every channel at the same time, Trisha thought. Click ... "Atkins is the most natural, easiest, tastiest, best long term way to achieve. ..." click ... "HCG triggers the body to provide a constant flow of "food" received from the fat that your body is breaking down" ... Click, and off.
Trisha struggled up from the plush red sofa in her television room, leaving the remote to fall between squashed cushions. It took a swinging effort to heave her bulk up, and in the process she knocked over the reading lamp ... again. After picking it up and setting it on the old English end table she waddled back towards the kitchen for a coffee refill, utterly miserable, hungry as hell, musing twice about the waffles and she started to cry. It was a useless game she was stuck in, so disappointed in herself, her mother ... and with her life. On her way to the kitchen she stopped by the family portrait taken many years ago when she was just a little girl excited for the great adventure ahead. Obviously, she regretted how the whole thing had turned out. She was alone, with no children ... yet; she was still on this side of her birthing years — if just barely. Of course for her there would be no kids and no husband, except maybe for one of those freaky chubby chasers. Trisha would have none of that. What had gone so wrong? Everyone in the family reunion picture was thin, even her mother. They were so happy, at least that is the way she reminisced it. She fondly remembered what they ate that day.
Why does food control me? Is it at the root of emotional deformities, or is it just a symptom?
She remembered big bowls of chips, nuts, candy, and some bacon treat. There was a vegetable platter with dip, Coca Cola bottles iced up and ready to drink from, all before they sat down to dine. The fresh rolls were complemented by real butter, oh I can still smell that smell, and in the oven a huge roast beef readied itself. The giant iron pot of fresh gravy on the stove simmered.
There was corn on the cob bubbling in a milky-buttery broth and garlic mashed potatoes a plenty. The aroma of Grandma's homemade stuffing arrived through an open window as she and Grandpa made their way to the front door. There was a fancy salad with Thousand Island dressing already on the table along with Knott's Berry Farm strawberry jam for those rolls in case the butter didn't do the trick. No wonder everyone was so happy. Aunt Betsy arrived with fresh baked pies, Trisha's mother put out the hand-churned vanilla bean ice cream, and that young lady knew what heaven was like. Trisha winced with longing pain as she drifted back into reality. All of that was gone now, a memory, faded with lost chances at a normal life. Things aren't right.
When she reached the coffee pot she was sorely tempted to add heavy cream and sugar. Will today end up as the first day or not? Again she poured it black, sipping miserably as she went rummaging through the fridge looking for something to eat. Not much in the way of diet food to pick from. Why not half rations? I'll have half a loaf of toast, smothered in half a pound of butter, a half a rash of bacon, half of a dozen eggs, half a box of hash browns, half a gallon of milk, and finish it up with a half a box of Sugar Frosted Flakes with half and half. When she went small at lunch her mother would know that this time she was serious. Just kidding, she laughed to herself. There's humor in the game of trying to fight off a slow and slothful demise. Great job, Trisha; at the back of the fruit box was a honeydew melon. She had put it there for dieting protection yesterday.
She put one slice of bread in the toaster, cut the melon, continued sipping the black coffee and somehow made it through her first meal. It wasn't so bad, really. Trisha had not limited breakfast to something as simple as honeydew melon and a single slice of dry toast, perhaps ever.
Truthfully, it tasted sweet, kind of like magic, really. Fruit without sugar; sadly, once everything was cleaned up a new thought conjured a new red flag; now what should I have for breakfast? Dad-burn-it, she had forgotten to weigh herself in and now the scale would show even more. This was not going well, but then an epiphany struck. Who cares how high the first number is? The higher the better so when I look back I can tell them all how much more I lost.
She happily got on the old torture plate and took a reading ... down four pounds from yesterday. That is flat out impossible! Yesterday, Trisha had eaten all day and culminated everything with a last supper that would have made Caesar himself proud. She was reminded again that this dieting business was tricky at best, and not altogether logical. Her body never did what it was supposed to.
For a moment her mind drifted into the past, to high school. She was once a long distance runner, a member of the track team. Trisha was skinny, real slender. She wasn't a chubby kid destined to grow enormous. Obviously Trisha had the 'fat' gene in her chromosomal make up, the propensity to gain weight, but it had not manifested itself in her life at that time. There was even some interest in her as a runner at the college level; that is, before she was injured at the end of her senior season. It didn't seem to be that big of a deal at the time, but, she never raced competitively again.
Trisha walked down the hall, an unusable cave except as a pathway to her room. The carpet was worn and frayed, there was nothing on the walls, and one of the two ceiling lights had not worked in some time, years perhaps. Her bedroom was a total mess. The sheets were dirty and there were clothes everywhere. Behind where the headboard would be if she had one, there was an inch or thereabouts of open space to the wall. It served a specific purpose, a place to stuff fast food wrappers so she didn't have to get out of bed to throw them away. It was a sty. To the best of her knowledge, not another person had been allowed into her private space for years running. She didn't live in this hole; she just existed here, except for the kitchen. Everything in there was completely organized. You could sure tell what mattered to her in life. Pain medication in the form of food was what she lived on.
She took a shower. For the first time today Trisha felt better. No, it was the second time today. She felt a little better after she had eaten her breakfast, too. Somewhere deep inside of this troubled person there was a real human being, hidden yes, but she was still in there. That senior high school runner, the tiny little athlete who was fascinated by her many friends, was still a part of who she was. A different Trisha Martin was alive somewhere deep inside the wreckage of her present. Could that person ever come out again? Fantasy wishes of a delusionary, an obese person, one who lived in the past. She would have a great deal of trouble seeing that Trisha resurrected. It was painful to allow herself the luxury of daring that she could find that optimistic, vibrant, thin, running machine. Yet, one never knew the future. That was what her mother always said.
So that's where things stood that Saturday morning; it was still not yet 9:00. She decided to turn on the television in her room and watch news. Do they still call that garbage 'news' these days? Who knows; who cares, thought the onetime captain of the State high school debate team.
Instead of news, there was an informational program on — you guessed it — another dieting choice, Nutrisystem. Even Marie Osmond should be smart enough enough to know that garbage was dog food. How could anyone even consider eating that ... that whatever it is? Click. "Dr. Sears Zone Diet burns fat faster ..." Click. "Your alliplan helps your head learn healthy habits that stick; alli is all about eating. ..." Click. Off. This was getting ridiculous. Here I sit, Trisha thought, on the first day of my new life, I'm already overwhelmed, and every time I look at the TV all I see is one plan after another; it's surreal. This had to be a message from God or maybe it's a nonsensical coincidence.
Trisha went to the dresser drawer and slid it open, the one with where she kept bedtime snacks. Inside there was a bag of chocolate covered walnuts, open and stale, three bags of chips, two huge Butterfingers, a partial tube of Ritz Crackers and more. She sighed, thinking of it as poison, not really, but for her today it was. She lost her wits and started to cry as she slammed it closed. Trisha Martin was literally stuck in a dreadful, horrible place. Her life was sinking into complete disarray. There didn't seem to be any way out of it. She flopped down onto the bed sobbing, collapsing too hard, and so dislodged the box spring from the frame. After a few minutes of extreme self pity, she drifted into a troubled sleep, not bothering to fix the tilting mattress. She dreamed.
It was a sunny day, a Saturday, and the high school senior was running like the wind. Racing had never felt better. The air was crisp and clean; she had reached the six mile mark, quickly hydrated with a lime drink and moved on. How Trisha Martin felt when running a race was as inexpressible as the inner workings of a horse's mind in the final turn at the Kentucky Derby. For some reason her body was responding like never before. Just three weeks ago she had finished a distant sixth at the Nevada State High School Cross Country Track and Field Championships. It had been her best time.
She'd been happy with it, but she knew there was more in her. Today, well, today was that more. There were over 1,000 runners in this race and she was near the lead pack. The kid picked up the pace, got back into rhythm, and began to pass runners, some of them experienced racers with credentials. One, a college sprinter on full scholarship at UCLA, seemed to be struggling as far as Trisha could tell. Not Trisha, not today. The course turned up into the hills and she pushed herself. Her reserves let her move on again. At the top of a sun-baked knoll the route took a sharp left, down through a shadowy dip, up a couple of hundred yards through a copse of evergreens and over the top. From there she could see the skyline of Los Angeles as if it were in a glass bottle, an amazing vista.
The dog jumped from the side of the road right in front of her, forcing an unnatural hop sideways. Trisha Martin stumbled, and then fell toward the pavement. She had her right foot on the ground when she felt the tell-tale snap in the back of that still grounded foot and ...
"Trisha Martin. We have need of you."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from "The Runner" by Lloyd Wendell Cutler. Copyright © 2015 Lloyd Wendell Cutler. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Acknowledgements, vii,Prologue, ix,
Chapter 1 The Longest Day, 1,
Chapter 2 Stanley Burton, 39,
Chapter 3 It Takes a Village, 91,
Chapter 4 Going to War, 155,
Chapter 5 Willing to Live — Willing to Die, 217,
Chapter 6 Annie, 256,
Chapter 7 Frankfurt, 323,
Chapter 8 Olympiad, 363,
Chapter 9 Marathon, 417,
Epilogue, 483,
End Game, 491,