CHAPTER ELEVEN
I left Granta House for the stadium feeling somewhat defeated that morning. For the better part of a year, I had lived in a vivid dream world of possibility and wonder with Clarke and spent my waking hours spanning my daily landscape looking for her. I realized the absurdity of it all, and yet I had made significant progress in the last 24 hours. I had come so close but yet felt so far from accomplishing my goal. I was a man on a mission whose newfound progress was suddenly halted by the news that Clarke was not due back at the café until Monday morning when I would be back in London. I knew driving around the village looking for her wasn't an option. "There goes the Traynor boy stalking around young, pretty brunettes again in that Jaguar of his" was not how I wanted to be known in town. I also knew that I had traveled so far that leaving without making any substantial headway could easily cause me to come undone again just as I had when Clarke ceased appearing in my dreams. I considered calling Harris, requesting a day off to extend my stay in Stortford. I could use whatever renovations my father was planning as an excuse to give myself the day to meet face to face with Clarke. She had such a profound effect on me that I felt I owed it to myself to finish what I started, even if she rejected me and I left gutted.
It was a 15 minute drive to the stadium from Granta House. I couldn't help notice how differently Stortford looked in the matter of a year since my last time home. I had heard about the recession, but hadn't seen the consequences until now. Despite it being a weekend in an off-tourist season, the streets looked more desolate than usual. There were a handful of out-of- business signs and empty storefronts on Main Street. As I passed an exit for neighboring Hailsbury I felt my throat tighten. There stood a sign for Beech Novelty, a 70 year old furniture company, that my firm had been involved in asset stripping. A man by the name of Alan Stonehouse, who I trained myself a few years back, earned the nickname of "The Hatchet Man" because he had been particularly brutal in dismantling Beech Novelty piece by piece until there was nothing left. Beech closed earlier this year, 200 employees out of work. I can't say I took any pleasure in Alan's success or the manner in which he did business. That was often the unfortunate downside of financier banking – the human toll.
When I reached the stadium the carpark was to my surprise packed, a kids' football match could be overheard echoing from the interior of the park. The chill from the early morning began to dissipate with the warming sun as it neared closer to midday. I removed my black canvas jacket, leaving it in the car and walked with Pesto in tow towards the stadium entrance. On my way in, I moved aside to let 3 blokes appearing to have just completed a hardcore training session and wearing "Hailsbury Triathlon Terrors" jerseys exit first. "All my plans went to pot," I noted as they passed. "I hadn't gotten dressed up for the likes of them!" I shook my head in disbelief. I had wanted to make a good first impression on Clarke at the café today. I wore a blue and white stretch gingham shirt to bring out my gray eyes with jeans and a pair of black Authentic Vans. I left the top 2 buttons of my shirt open to tastefully hint at my physique underneath and applied a conservative amount of Invictus cologne to appeal to her senses without being too overt or overpowering.
Once inside the stadium itself was rather empty but a few teenage lads practicing football kicks in the net on the green and 2 older couples walking the track counterclockwise at a leisurely pace. I followed suit. As per the training program, Pesto required daily exercise to keep fit and burn off excess energy, which at almost 7 months he had an awful lot of these days. I kept a strict adherence to the recommended Five Minute Rule as not to over exert or cause any developmental issues, so the morning's walk around the stadium would last about 35 minutes.
Pesto and I completed our first lap around the track when I noticed that the same 3 Hailsbury Triathlon Terrors we passed on our way in had returned with 2 additional members and lots of sports drinks. The track suddenly became crowded. One couple completely left the track altogether decisively put off by one particular Hailsbury Triathlon Terror jogging in place on track 4 and shouting like a drill sergeant. He was the tallest and leanest of the 5 and clearly the most serious as he was the only member decked out in full triathlon regalia – the tri suit! Don't get me wrong, I've donned a wetsuit for surfing and a wingsuit for skydiving, but those tri suits looked so unnatural on a man. I had seen his type in London gyms and out training. Passionate or zealous wouldn't be accurate descriptions. They were fanatical, obsessive diehards for their sport. I would even go as far as to call them rabid! Between the suit and personality, I had a hard time taking this sort of bloke seriously.
As I got closer his shouting became louder, more intense, his words more audible. The veins in his neck were pulsating. "Sixty miles on bike! Thirty miles on foot! 2.4 mile swim in subzero Nordic seas! You look like a bunch of pansy arses! You're an absolute embarrassment today! Get it together, boys! You've got to work smarter AND harder! Think about your times!" I came face to face with him after his rant concluded. Unfortunately, our eyes made brief contact. Still jogging in place he acknowledged me with an awkward downward nod and equally awkward comment in passing. "Motivation," he said darting his face towards me. "That's how it's done!" And with that he unexpectedly let out a primal grunt while chest thumping with both fists drawing my attention to a mesh vest worn over his tri suit that read "Young Entrepreneur of the Year". Whoa, even more of a pompous, arrogant prat, I thought! Like Alicia, he reminded me of a caricature.
On my next lap, I saw Running Man in the distance suddenly dash over to the stadium entrance, take a girl's hand and lead her back to the middle track with him. He proceeded to hold her hand and jog backwards, leading her running in my direction. I told myself it couldn't be. I told myself I was hallucinating. I told myself I was imagining her like I did at the museum the evening before. But there she was, and I couldn't take my eyes off of her. Clarke.
No vintage gown. No red lips. Her hair was swept to the side in one long braid like in so many of my dreams. She looked like she stepped out of another decade in a long gray sweatshirt with fuchsia hearts and black leggings with gray converse high tops and fuchsia and maroon striped leg warmers. A pink floral bag hung across her body and hit her hip with every movement she took. I watched her run out of breath in mere seconds, release Running Man's hand and then clutch both of her breasts as she came to a complete stop. I couldn't overhear what she said to Running Man, but I was now only feet away and saw her up close for the first time. Despite her current countenance I found her in, gasping for air nonetheless and still cupping her breasts, she was striking, more beautiful than I had even imagined. Her blueberry eyes even more vibrant. Her skin so creamy and flawless. I stared the entire time I passed her, but not once did she look in my direction and notice me. For the first time as far as I could remember, I was invisible. I was invisible to the only person I so desperately wanted to see me.
As I got a safe distance from her, I stopped, turned around, and watched her walk away from Running Man to the bleachers where she took a seat. I didn't know who Running Man was to her. Nor did I care. I just knew she was alone now, and I had to talk to her. I decided that on the following go around I would approach her.