Read Online The Front Runner by Patricia Nell Warren - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Nell Warren
Tags: Fiction, Gay, New York (State), Gay Men, Track and Field Coaches, Track-Athletics, Runners (Sports), Erotic Romance Fiction, Track and Field, Runners
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miles.
"That's a big order," I said. "You'll have to be breaking 28 in the 10,000 and 13:35 in the 5,000 by next fall. To win, you'd probably have to run anywhere between 27:30 and 27:35 in the 10,000, and around 13:10 or 15 in the 5,000. You haven't had any international experience, so we'd have to get you out there a time or two beforehand. That's why Steve Prefon-taine lost the 5,000 at Munich—he didn't know how tough those European babies are."
I didn't add that Americans had won only two Olympic 5,000s and one 10,000 in history, and that only now were American distance runners becoming a serious challenge to European power in these two great events. Billy knew that.
"I worry that maybe I'm too young for this Olympics," said Billy.
"It isn't how young you are. It's how good you are."
"Okay," Billy grinned, "I'll take your word for it."
"Get your ass into the shower," I said. "I want to see all three of you at my house tonight. Seven sharp. We have team open house there every Monday and Thursday. Training films, consciousness-raising, and stuff."
"Okay, Mr. Brown," he said.
"No sarcasm," I barked. "And I mean that."
He looked at me strangely. "Sure, Mr. Brown," he said in a low voice and walked off.
That evening at seven, my house slowly filled with runners.
I lived in what had once been the head gardener's cottage. It was a pleasant rambling stucco place, with a wisteria-covered veranda in front. It stood on the warm south side of several big spruces and pines, near the greenhouses. (The greenhouses had once housed Joe's famed orchid collection—now they sheltered a clutter of exotic botany and ecological experiments.) From my front window, I could look across the field to the track
and the bleachers. Joe Prescott must have known what balm that little house, and that view, would be to my wounded soul.
The runners came in tracking mud. The big living room had windowseats and windows on three sides. Now the red chintz curtains were pulled. The fire in the fieldstone fireplace threw a pleasant glow on the dark old board floor, on the threadbare Afghan rag before the hearth. I had bought the wing chairs and sofa and coffee table at the local thrift shop.
The decor fit my needs exactly. Nothing fancy, so the boys could flop all over it. Easy to clean, since my ex-wife was still soaking me and I couldn't afford a cleaning lady. On the pine-paneled walls, I had photos of runners and a few fly-spotted old sporting prints.
On either side of the fireplace were two doors. The one on the right led into a small sunny kitchen, with old-fashioned cupboards painted so many times you could hardly close the doors. I did as little cooking as possible, preferring to eat with the students in the college dining room.
The door on the left led into the paneled bedroom. The hideous burled-walnut Victorian bed and dresser had come from the local Salvation Army warehouse. The big windows looked out into the spruce trees, but now the curtains were pulled. By the bed, another creaky door led into an ice-cold old-fashioned tile bathroom with a rusty shower and a cranky old toilet.
Four of the cross-country team were already there. I had two of them bringing in more wood from the tarp-covered pile behind the house, and the other two in the kitchen slicing carrots to make carrot sticks.
The Oregon three came at five after seven, just to establish their independence. They shucked their jackets and looked around.
"Carrot sticks," said Vince with disgust, leaning in the kitchen doorway.
"No junk food served on this campus," I said. "No potato chips, no hot dogs, none of that crap. Runners are what they eat."
Jacques came into the kitchen and started cutting
carrots with exquisite precision. He was a biology major, and had probably gotten his skilldissecting specimens in the lab.
Shortly" they were all there. Joe Prescott came too, and settled into a wing chair (I had made a track nut out of him, and he came to the open house as
"That's a big order," I said. "You'll have to be breaking 28 in the 10,000 and 13:35 in the 5,000 by next fall. To win, you'd probably have to run anywhere between 27:30 and 27:35 in the 10,000, and around 13:10 or 15 in the 5,000. You haven't had any international experience, so we'd have to get you out there a time or two beforehand. That's why Steve Prefon-taine lost the 5,000 at Munich—he didn't know how tough those European babies are."
I didn't add that Americans had won only two Olympic 5,000s and one 10,000 in history, and that only now were American distance runners becoming a serious challenge to European power in these two great events. Billy knew that.
"I worry that maybe I'm too young for this Olympics," said Billy.
"It isn't how young you are. It's how good you are."
"Okay," Billy grinned, "I'll take your word for it."
"Get your ass into the shower," I said. "I want to see all three of you at my house tonight. Seven sharp. We have team open house there every Monday and Thursday. Training films, consciousness-raising, and stuff."
"Okay, Mr. Brown," he said.
"No sarcasm," I barked. "And I mean that."
He looked at me strangely. "Sure, Mr. Brown," he said in a low voice and walked off.
That evening at seven, my house slowly filled with runners.
I lived in what had once been the head gardener's cottage. It was a pleasant rambling stucco place, with a wisteria-covered veranda in front. It stood on the warm south side of several big spruces and pines, near the greenhouses. (The greenhouses had once housed Joe's famed orchid collection—now they sheltered a clutter of exotic botany and ecological experiments.) From my front window, I could look across the field to the track
and the bleachers. Joe Prescott must have known what balm that little house, and that view, would be to my wounded soul.
The runners came in tracking mud. The big living room had windowseats and windows on three sides. Now the red chintz curtains were pulled. The fire in the fieldstone fireplace threw a pleasant glow on the dark old board floor, on the threadbare Afghan rag before the hearth. I had bought the wing chairs and sofa and coffee table at the local thrift shop.
The decor fit my needs exactly. Nothing fancy, so the boys could flop all over it. Easy to clean, since my ex-wife was still soaking me and I couldn't afford a cleaning lady. On the pine-paneled walls, I had photos of runners and a few fly-spotted old sporting prints.
On either side of the fireplace were two doors. The one on the right led into a small sunny kitchen, with old-fashioned cupboards painted so many times you could hardly close the doors. I did as little cooking as possible, preferring to eat with the students in the college dining room.
The door on the left led into the paneled bedroom. The hideous burled-walnut Victorian bed and dresser had come from the local Salvation Army warehouse. The big windows looked out into the spruce trees, but now the curtains were pulled. By the bed, another creaky door led into an ice-cold old-fashioned tile bathroom with a rusty shower and a cranky old toilet.
Four of the cross-country team were already there. I had two of them bringing in more wood from the tarp-covered pile behind the house, and the other two in the kitchen slicing carrots to make carrot sticks.
The Oregon three came at five after seven, just to establish their independence. They shucked their jackets and looked around.
"Carrot sticks," said Vince with disgust, leaning in the kitchen doorway.
"No junk food served on this campus," I said. "No potato chips, no hot dogs, none of that crap. Runners are what they eat."
Jacques came into the kitchen and started cutting
carrots with exquisite precision. He was a biology major, and had probably gotten his skilldissecting specimens in the lab.
Shortly" they were all there. Joe Prescott came too, and settled into a wing chair (I had made a track nut out of him, and he came to the open house as
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