Today was the day he would do it. Dave liberated himself from the bed as the sun fought to free itself from the horizon. He dressed for leisure and success, given that he had a barrier to break. Dave drained a bottle of water like he was tossing back a shot glass. Catching himself in the mirror, he paused. His eyes held the primitive hunger of an ancient predator. After stretching his sleep-atrophied muscles, he entered the kitchen, where Sara brewed a pot of coffee.
“Today is the day,” he declared.
“Is that so?” Sara asked with minimal interest and a smile of well-worn support.
“Yes, today is the day.” His tone grew resolute.
“What, Saturday?”
“Very funny, Sara.” He could not enjoy the good-natured ribbing, for he was deliberate in his quest.
“I’m sorry. Good luck today, honey!” She leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“Thanks. I’ll be back—sooner than usual.” Dave exited the house, ready to take on the world. He hesitated for several seconds on the front walk, admiring the body of his long shadow, resembling that of an elite marathon runner. This day called for music to match his energy, his enthusiasm. Following a brief search through his phone, he chose his punk-rock playlist.
A pair of young women jogged by. “Hi, Dave,” they said. He returned their greeting, and though he preferred to follow them, he reset his watch, turned in the opposite direction, and ran.
Turning forty last week wasn’t the oft-dreaded milestone for Dave. Most saw their lives progressing in decades. But Dave measured his in racing age groups, always wishing to outperform his peers when advancing into a new one. No longer required to pit himself against the thirty-five to thirty-nine set, where the fastest were often four years his junior, he welcomed his new decade. The hope of breaking into the top ten in the upcoming 5k run glided him through the neighbourhood.
Billie Joe Armstrong sang “Nice Guys Finish Last” as Dave exited the development and proceeded along the shoulder of the state highway. The draft from the oncoming traffic cooled his face. Between the new running shoes, a morning made for the outdoors, and the aggressive tunes, Dave was confident he would achieve a Personal Record (PR) for three miles. He raced only against time like a fugitive trying to outrun his past. His speed was fast for the first mile, and he visualized maintaining it for the second and third.
Yes, today was the day—the thought caused the afterburners to engage.
The driving rhythm of “Lock, Step & Gone” propelled Dave’s feet and mind when he reached the strip mall. Nearing the far end of that ubiquitous suburban structure, the man keeping tempo with him in the mirrored glass was struggling. That man ran in the manner of a person twice his size—chugging along, drenched in sweat, red as a screaming newborn just pulled from the womb. He thought he heard that man’s labored breathing over the music and street noise as if his lungs were flattened straws. Dave’s pace softened.
Within several strides of the turnaround point, he spotted something in the adjacent lane forging on into traffic. Cars swerved, and horns honked, yet the squat figure continued on its suicidal path. When Dave drew closer, he realized it was a massive turtle. He dashed to it, flagging motorists away. He hoisted the hulking reptile and carried it off, placing it in the thicket beyond the breakdown lane. The turtle lumbered on into the overgrowth without turning around or expressing gratitude.
“You’re welcome,” Dave called after him. While waving goodbye, he noticed he hadn’t paused his watch during the turtle’s rescue. The PR, requiring a breakthrough of a ten-minute-per-mile pace, would have to wait.
“Tomorrow will be the day.” He set himself in motion and headed home.
