Playing the Field: Victory Lap

Chapter 2

Three months earlier, if someone had suggested Josh might consider training for Richmond’s annual 10K run, he would’ve laughed in their face. At thirty-three, he was overweight and out of shape, and the thought of running anywhere broke him out in a cold sweat. All those late nights eating pizza and drinking beers had settled into a band of fat around his midsection. Anyone who willingly entered a race of any length was crazy, Josh thought. No one would ever catch him at it.

Then came the chest pains.

They were innocuous at first, just slight little stabs when he moved a certain way. He told himself they were growing pains—they felt like them, anyway, the same little twinges of pain that used to shoot up his arms and down his legs when he was younger. Fifteen years younger, sure, but wasn’t he still a growing boy?

He began to notice how winded he got walking up the short flight of stairs to his terrace apartment. Seventeen steps and he’d be huffing like a steam engine. Climbing out of the car took more energy than needed. s*x with his boyfriend Robbie became an Olympic event. By the time they were finished, Josh was flushed and sweating, too tired to even get out of bed and clean himself off. He’d fall asleep before Robbie even pulled out, most of the time.

Then Robbie started with the teasing.

Little things at first. “Move your big ass,” in a playful tone as Josh walked past the television. “God, I want to hit that chunk,” and a slap on the buttocks before s*x. Afterwards, as Robbie pushed Josh onto his side of the bed, it was, “It’s like moving a beached whale. Give me some room, will you?”

The words began to hurt. So did the occasional slaps—love taps, Robbie called them. “Man up,” he’d say, aiming a fist at Josh’s arm. “You’re a big man. You can’t feel this.”

But Josh could. The slaps became punches, the pinches grew vicious, s*x became a battle between them. Finally Josh had had enough. He moved out.

Stopped eating.

Started exercising.

The pains went away—the ones in his chest, shooting down his left arm. The ones Robbie inflicted, too, those disappeared. Pizza was passed over in favor of roasted chicken and salads. Beers for water. He shed ten pounds the first week and was so surprised when he didn’t have to suck in his gut to button his jeans, he joined a gym.

It was there he saw the poster for the 10K run. He knew about it, of course—everyone who lived in Richmond knew about the annual event because it shut down all the major roads downtown for an entire day. A local supermarket was a huge sponsor, so every grocery bag had details of the event emblazoned on it. Race schedules were posted in the papers and online at all the news websites, giving motorists plenty of notice about closed roads and alternate routes. In all his years in the city, Josh never once felt the urge to run in the 10K. It was for marathoners, or professional runners, or crazy exercise nuts who liked to push their bodies to the limit.

Not him. Never him.

At least, not the old him. But this newer, leaner, meaner Josh? This no-nonsense man with the slimmed down body and now-defined abs? This healthy eater, this sexy single, this Josh? He might could run it.

He might win.

No, he wouldn’t go that far. The only people who ever won the 10K were Kenyans shipped in specifically to run it; everyone knew that. But he could run in it, just to see how well he did. Establish a baseline, then see if he couldn’t beat his own time the following year. He could do that.

And he would.