More His Speed

Doug's grandparents met at a barn dance. His folks got together in church.

He met his first wife in a bar. She was at a baby shower at the next table and when Doug first laid eyes on her, he was watching the show like everybody else in the joint, seeing her gyrate up on a table sporting a disposable diaper like a pussy hat. She sure could have used an undergarment at the time, her g-string no doubt hanging from some guy's mirror that night.

Should have been his first clue.

That tragic mistake behind him, the Internet age was ushered in with even less effective methods of connecting with the compatible. Doug gamely tried them all and like pretty much everybody else he knew, had a pathetic batting average. He returned to bars, went out with pals' second cousins and, more often than not, went home alone.

It was time for a new approach. It occurred to him, as most great ideas did, when he was out running. It was more than an easy fitness activity that kept his weight in check and his cardiovascular system in tune. It destressed him, improved his focus and, when stuck at work as often happens in the commercial art biz, it opened up new solutions to old creative problems.

But all that was doing was keep him alive, and healthy -- and lonely -- longer. It took him awhile to realize while running half marathons and 10Ks that he was absently lining up behind some of the loveliest bottoms he'd ever seen -- while uttering inward prayers of thanks to Lululemon --until, one by one, they'd falter and fall behind, forcing him to seek out fitter tail on the road that stretched ahead. Because that's where he would find a more serious runner, a deeper thinker. Maybe...a soulmate.

Or perhaps he was an over-rationalizing butt man who just needed to get laid, very, very badly.

It took awhile, but at 50 Doug had (finally) figured out that women were more than the sum of their (delightful) parts, and that those tantalizing extremities were controlled by the central operating system between their ears. It was high time for a new kind of speed dating -- spending in the order of two hours moving toward a common goal while imparting useful (and hopefully interesting) knowledge about the other while running in tandem.

There are many subjective aspects of life to help determine compatibility, and there wasn't much Doug could do about those. But he could at least begin with matching athletic ability, with each running at a pace comfortable enough to carry on a conversation to go the distance. By the time they'd completed the race, crossing the finish line side by side, collecting that ridiculous cheap medal (they're getting to be the size of hub caps) and warming up under a thermal blanket together, they would know. Or at least find a friend. A starting point from which all else would follow.

"This is just stupid enough to work!" he thought, and was further inspired not to prove his thesis with any of his male and, perhaps most helpfully, his female friends. He belonged to a runner's network in the city and a few weeks before the annual marathon and half marathon, he posted a short message on the club website and on a bulletin board at his neighborhood Runner's High shoe and clothing store. It featured a picture of himself in action crossing the finish line with the short and sweet message: Join me on October 13 -- I run a nine-minute mile and promise two hours of honesty, provocative questions and laughter. If you can keep up, join me at the starting line.

Doug actually got a few nibbles (thanking men for their attention but...) before he got a message from a woman named Barbara. They exchanged texts and agreed on time and place. He was nervous and excited and delightfully surprised when a cute blonde jogged his way that Sunday morning and formally introduced herself. They seemed to hit it off but he couldn't help noticing a tall, lean and elegant woman standing off to the side. She was doing stretches and apparently listening to the music in her earbuds, but Doug had a suspicion she was actually listening in on his conversation with his new running buddy. He steered Barbara closer to the front of the Green Corral they were waiting in and, sure enough, a few moments later the dark-haired woman had snuck into position a row away, within earshot.

Doug put the stranger out of his mind, the gun went off, and he and Barbara began moving, slowly at first as the crowd neared the starting line, then into a full gallop as they began the run. For the first 20 minutes Barbara was an explosion of details -- she was a dental assistant, had a cockapoo named Charlie, was currently separated, loved yoga, was vegan but had a weakness for ballpark franks, adored Tylor Swift (and regaled Doug with her latest single), hung with her college posse and did she mention running was her passion?

It was soon apparent Barbara's passion was making her pooped, and she began to struggle. She began wheezing and her conversation broke into disjointed sentence islands -- Doug felt as though he was carrying on a conversation with William Shatner in a midriff baring sports bra and tights. (Sorry for the visual.)

Finally, in the spirit of honesty Doug promised in his posting, Barbara had to make an embarrassing confession -- she'd never run a half marathon before and, in fact, got winded running for the bus to get there in the first place. The wheezing turned to stitches in her side to limping and then, mercifully, to forfeiting.

"I don't understand," Doug said when they pulled over to allow actual serious runners pass them by. "Why did you agree to join me?"

By now Barbara was doubled over by a garbage can and appeared to be preparing to use it. "I sorry, you just looked cute in the ad. I was only in the store buying socks on sale." Before Doug could say anything else, the flustered non-runner disappeared into the crowd and, deflated, he watched her go. He began berating himself for not thinking his harebrained scheme through, but then remembered the old saying that in life the best you can hope for is a good time or a good story. This would be the latter and he knew he could count on his pals to tease him about it the next time they went out for a beer.

In a couple minutes Doug caught up to the dark-haired woman he'd noticed earlier and as he neared, she turned with a smirk on her face.

"I knew it," she said. Doug turned quizzically. "Knew what?"

"She didn't have it. Did you even look at her shoes?"

"Her shoes?"

"Brand new, not a scuff on them. That outfit would be torture from chaffing over any distance. And with a rack like that, no way she's a serious runner -- certainly not a nine-minute miler."

He looked at the woman and was slack-jawed. "Wait a minute, how do you know--"

She laughed. "I saw the advertisement on the bulletin board. I'm a member of the Runner's High club too." She put her hand out. "I'm Lara."

He shook it, a little in shock. "Doug. Hey, why didn't you say anything earlier?"

Lara shrugged. "I was just curious who you'd pick. And I have to say Doug, I'm a little disappointed. That card was imaginative, but did you even bother vetting her running record through the database? I'll bet you would have drawn a blank."

Doug shook his head. "She just admitted she was only in the store to buy socks. Thought I looked cute on the bulletin board."

Lara let that hang in the air. "Well, at least she's right about that." She looked at him. "You should date me."

Doug laughed. "You're serious? Even after I fucked that up?"

"Move on, Doug," she said. "We got 90 minutes to go. You start."

So Doug started. About his failed marriage and patchy love life. His brother and sister, how he hated yoga, loved charred meat (but hated ballpark franks), missed The Eagles, about the couple of friends he could call at 3 in the morning for bail money and clean pair of pants, and that running was, in fact, his passion and that the runner's database would prove that.

She stopped him short when he began talking about what he did for a living. "Not important," she insisted. "I want to get to know you."

When it was Lara's turn, she was a little more hesitant and left him wanting to know more. There had been a couple men and a woman in her life but she never took the marital plunge. She played basketball in a women's league, dabbled in photography and loved the splendor and silence of scuba diving in the Caribbean. Doug was titillated by the mention of a woman in her life but dismissed his urge to ask for further details. Hopefully there would be time to be a horse's ass about that later.

As Lara spoke, Doug admired her toned, slender body, sculpted and tight, her posture upright, her waist narrow and her abs flat and firm. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail which whipped back and forth as she ran. She seemed determined to ensure he wouldn't get a long lascivious look at her behind, matching him stride for stride. A mile every nine minutes, that was the deal.

As Lara spoke, he found her lips thin but well-defined, but when she smiled her mouth became a quick, fleeting curve. Her eyes were a beguiling green set above a small slightly upturned nose which flared with her breath she took. Hers was an understated beauty, framed by an evident intelligence with a touch of mirth.

The minutes and miles passed quickly as they shared their CVs and with the end in sight, Doug wasn't all that surprised by the prospective results of their run. Checking his watch he chuckled, "I am having my best time ever! AND...I'm enjoying myself too."

Lara quickly checked her Garmin program and nodded -- if she could keep this pace, she'd crush her personal best. She gave Doug a playful slap. "Don't jinx it!"

Doug shook his head. "Just a couple miles to go and the wicked hills are behind us. It's clear sailing."

Lara's legs burned as she pounded down the asphalt, her breath coming in steady but labored bursts. The cheers of spectators lining the streets provided a rhythmic backdrop to her determination. She looked over at Doug -- the run would soon be over and then what? Would she see him again? Would he be interested in seeing her?

Then her attention turned to a small crowd gathered on the side of the road ahead, their faces painted with worry, hands to mouths. A runner lay sprawled on the ground, unmoving. A race official was on his cell and looking about frantically for help. Lara's stomach dropped. Without a second thought, she bolted from Doug's side and pushed through the spectators.

"Coming through!" she called, her voice steady despite her pounding heart.

When she reached the fallen runner, she dropped to her knees. "I'm a paramedic," she announced, her voice capturing everyone's attention. "What happened -- how long ago?"

A young woman clutching a phone turned to her, her face pale. "He just collapsed, maybe, I don't know, a minute ago? I... I called 911. They said an ambulance is on its way."

Lara nodded, already assessing the man and ready to go to work. Mid-forties, pale, and clammy. She pressed two fingers to his neck. No pulse. Her stomach churned, but her training kicked in.

"He's in cardiac arrest," she said sharply. "I need everyone to step back. Give me room to work."

The crowd shuffled backward, their murmurs growing quieter. Lara tilted the man's head back, checked his airway, then began chest compressions. The rhythm of her hands pressing into his chest overrode the distant cheers of the race.

"One, two, three, four," she counted under her breath, her movements precise and relentless. Sweat dripped from her brow, spilling to the road beneath her.

The race official knelt beside her. "Can I help?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"If you know CPR, take over compressions after thirty," Lara said, her eyes never leaving the fallen runner's face. "If not, just keep the crowd back."

The man nodded and moved to keep the space clear. Lara continued on her own, her focus narrowing to the task at hand.

Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Repeat.

Time stretched and warped, each second dragging as though it carried the weight of the man's life. Then, in the distance, the wail of a siren pierced the air. Relief surged through her, but she didn't slow her efforts.

"Ambulance is here!" someone shouted, and a wave of hope rippled through the crowd.

The paramedics arrived, their movements swift and efficient as they pulled a gurney from the vehicle and set up their equipment. One of them knelt beside Lara, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Hey stranger, fancy meeting you here."

Lara quickly turned saw it was an old partner from a previous posting. "Hey Mitch. Been at this a couple minutes. Over to you -- plug him in."

"We've got it from here," he said, his voice calm but firm.

Lara nodded, and rose to her feet, her knees pocked with gravel and sand from the road's shoulder. Her arms were trembling from exertion and she was vaguely aware of Doug putting a protective arm around her as she backed away. She watched as her colleagues attached an automated external defibrillator to the man's chest. The machine's automated voice broke the tense silence: "Shock advised. Stand clear."

The crowd held its collective breath as the paramedics delivered the shock. The man's body jolted, and the paramedics continued their efforts to stabilize him. Within moments, he was on the gurney, oxygen mask in place, and wheeled into the ambulance.

Lara, her wits returning and beginning to stand down, watched as the ambulance doors slammed shut and the vehicle sped away, its siren fading into the distance.

"You okay?"

Lara was almost startled to see Doug beside her. "You stayed," she said.

Doug chuckled. "Hell, must be a thousand people here scoring a PB this morning," he said. "But I don't imagine anybody else got to see their friend save a stranger's life."

Lara absently wiped away moisture that might have been tears but more likely sweat from her eyes. "That's doubtful. In spite of what you see on TV, and all that CPR and cardiac paddle and hero doctor stuff, the truth is maybe 10% of people suffering cardiac arrest outside a hospital pull through. To make matters worse, the guy I just worked on is South Asian -- that poor bugger has four times the risk of undetected cardiovascular disease."

"You gave him a shot," Doug said with a shrug. "I am very impressed."

She ignored the accolade and looked at her watch. "So... you jinxed us after all. We can still get a decent 2:15 if we hustle our asses."

"With an asterix!" Doug hastened to add.

"Shut the fuck up," Lara snorted.

Doug was game, if surprised that Lara was ready to resume the run after such a rattling experience, but he guessed this could be a routine event for her, and proud as some of the spectators whooped and cheered as she began trotting back on the race course.

They ran silently until they made the turn for the final mile up the grand boulevard to city hall and the finish line.

"Ready to kick it up a notch?" she huffed, noting the usual mass of out-of-gas runners slowing as the end of their torment was near. Doug acknowledged he was ready to dig deep and leap over a couple dozen stragglers to improve his standing among Males 50-54, not quite knowing which category his partner fit into. DOB wasn't part of the earlier inquisition.

"Let's hit it!" Doug cried. "There's a soft brown banana with your name on it!"

Both Lara and Doug went into overdrive, weaving through a dense mass of spent sprinters and crossed the finish line, hand in hand, with the not-so-bad time of 2:12:35. Doug reluctantly released Lara's hand as they entered the final corral, allowing a cheerful-looking young thing bestow a medal over his head, and then Lara's.

"Do you display these?" Doug asked her as they passed through to the refreshment tables, grabbing that banana and a warm bagel.

Lara shook her head and nearly swallowed the banana whole, impressing Doug yet again. "They all go in my underwear drawer," she was finally able to report. "Maybe I'll show it to you sometime." Doug grinned and lived in hope.

As they moved through the exit area, where excited family and friends waited to greet their loved ones, it was soon apparent neither of them had any fans standing by. This was the tricky moment -- Doug wondered if he should suggest lunch or a cup of coffee, but concluded they both smelled like derelicts often shooed out of java joints. Ask for her number?

Lara, in turn, looked over at Doug and thought she'd very much like to see him again, once they were both dry and less fragrant. He could have abandoned her just as he parted company with Barbara BigBoobs about 10 miles ago. But he waited for her. That deserved some consideration.

Doug then saw an opportunity. A race volunteer was (badly) using chalk to inscribe directions on a brick wall indicating the Finish Line Meet-n-Greet area and Doug hustled over to have a word. Lara looked on in puzzlement as Doug took a chunk of green chalk from the volunteer's bucket and with a swirl of activity began creating what appeared to be a green dinosaur, using white chalk to add large googly eyes and unmenacing white teeth. In the prehistoric animal's tiny hands he placed a sign pointing to the meeting zone. The volunteer was delighted, but not as jazzed as the crowd of kids who suddenly formed around them.

"Terry the T-Rex! Terry the T-Rex!" they began to scream, begging their harried parents to take their picture next to the seven-foot-tall beast with the long tail. Lara laughed as Doug held up one child, and then another and then another, to get face-to-face with their cartoon hero as bemused moms whipped out their phones to capture the moment.

One of those moms sidled up to Lara. "Are you his girlfriend?"

Lara gasped. "What -- me? Oh no...well, I guess that's TBD."

The mom whistled under her breath. "He's got enormous...talent."

Lara shot her a look. "You know, I think he's just doing this to get into my pants."

The woman nodded. "A tall, hunky man who can cheerfully entertain a screaming multitude of rug rats with a piece of chalk. Sister, he's already IN my pants!" She then hurried off to rescue Doug from her son's wailing demands that he create another drawing especially for him.

It took a few minutes, but Doug was finally able to extricate himself from the mob and returned to his waiting running mate.

"Now it's my turn to be impressed," Lara smiled, before swishing a hand at his artwork. "What's that all about?"

Doug took a look back at his handiwork and, as always, frowned at things he probably should have done differently. Big difference between sketching on a tablet and drawing on a wall, old-school like.

"You showed me what you do for a living, I thought I'd show you my straight job," he explained. "I'm an illustrator, and that..." pointing to the green reptile, "...is my most popular creation."

Lara drew a blank. "Which is...."

Doug acted as though he was shocked at her ignorance. "What? You've never heard of Terry the T-Rex? He's only the biggest thing to pre-teens since Clifford the Big Red Dog!"

Lara just put her hands up. "Sorry, I am without issue. One niece, one nephew. Do you have kids? Guess I should have asked that a couple hours ago."

"No kids, no plants, no pets," Doug listed. "The secret to my success."

"And you illustrate kiddy books for a living?"

Doug blushed. "Well, I did, until a couple years ago. The publisher got a little annoyed when I drew the cover of a satirical final Terry the T-Rex book for The Onion, showing flaming meteors crashing all around as he's holding a tiny umbrella and screaming 'Oh fuck, we're all gonna die!'"

Lara laughed but Doug wasn't finished. "Yeah, it was funny at the time until the author saw it and now, well, I'm illustrating cookbooks and how-to manuals."