How could he show Lin Su that he admired her? That he was attracted to her? That he thought maybe they came from the same place and would understand each other?

Don’t expect too much of the future, his mentor would say. Live in the present and let the future evolve as it will and trust. It was a fancy way of saying, You’ll know what to do at the time. Or, Everything will be as it should be.

He went back to his condo and prepared for his race. He rested, meditated, practiced his breathing. He envisioned the race and worked on his nerves. Funny how after this many races, this many years, his nerves could still jangle. It made him very quiet and introspective. For obvious reasons he always had this feeling, deep in his gut, that if he wasn’t the fastest, wasn’t faster than everyone else, he wouldn’t survive. Intellectually he knew that wasn’t true, nor was it the real purpose of his race, even though he was a competitor through and through. That was his baggage.

He was up at four, ate his kale, oats and quinoa, banana and jerky at five. Got his gear set up, anything that wasn’t ready the night before. There was a support crew of eight for the Tyrene clientele but Nigel, Gretchen’s right-hand man, was personally looking after Blake’s equipment and would have his bike ready in the rack for after the swim and would be responsible for it before the marathon. They operated like a pit crew at the transitions—transfer of equipment, quick report on times, et cetera. Blake swam in his cycling shorts, changed shoes, ran in the same shorts. Along the way there would be water; Blake added small gel packs now and then. Occasionally they’d substitute a shot of sugar, a candy.

In the chaos of race setup—all the athletes gathering, collecting their numbers, getting final instructions from buddies, coaches, partners—Blake always went numb. He started hearing all the voices as if they were speaking in a tunnel—muffled and slow. He nodded now and then and there was no point in arguing, but by now it was too late to introduce any new instructions. He was busy inside his head remembering everything and nothing, trusting his experience and instincts, reminding himself from this point it was just a go. The gathering in divisions lasted for over an hour. Being in the pro men’s class, he had to wait for his wave to be called, so he stretched and did his breathing. He was hot even though the air was cool, and he paced. Paced and stretched with Nigel in his ear. Wind at ten knots, temp is sixty-four, water temp is sixty-two. Your event times are ranked fourth but you have the highest number of races in this event. We’ll be ready with numbers, wind and temp readings...

He lived for the sound of that horn because the waiting was almost as hard as the race. Once he heard that horn, ran and dove into the lake, all anxiety was gone and all he thought about was the race.

He was surrounded by swimmers who would soon be behind him and for right now all he heard was the rhythm of his breathing, his arms gliding through the water, the silence of the water and the smooth kick of his feet. Funny that this would be his best event, the thing that could’ve killed him once when he couldn’t swim. Now he thought swimming was the most relaxing part of the race. His time on this segment was always excellent.

He was gliding quickly, efficiently, and there was a little tension at the thought of the bike, his hardest segment. For some people it was the easiest, but for him, so tough. The length of his legs, even with a custom bike, made that segment too much work. But the swim was good; his time was right where he wanted it to be minus fifty seconds.

He had hours left to this race.

Out of the water, he dried his feet and got into the cycling shoes. He bent to adjust the tightness, took a gulp of water, got on and shot away. And although he tried, he could not get the number out of his mind—one hundred and twelve miles. His quads would begin to ache twenty miles in and burn at fifty miles. Running somehow set him right. His long legs fell into an easy, fluid stride and a relaxed, fleet pace. No matter how much he trained, the bike was his challenge. No matter how light and customized the bike, his legs would rather run. He was convinced it was all mental.

He had an image of Charlie taking off on his bike at warp speed. The kid who might’ve grown into adulthood without ever owning a bike, never really appreciating one or riding one. He saw the joy on the kid’s face even while he was huffing and puffing. He caught a glimpse of Lin Su glowering at him, pretty much telling him to butt out of her business, her son’s asthma, her life. And it made him smile. The first time he’d ever smiled on a ride. He wasn’t aching or burning; he wasn’t pumping. He was gliding almost effortlessly, so he assumed he was falling behind.

Someone sailed past him. Griffin. Australian. He had a reputation for taking early leads and had never won a race, though he’d placed very well in a few and was going to win one pretty soon. But Blake decided to just indulge himself, let himself think a little about a kid with asthma so damn grateful to be able to ride a bike for a little while, so apparently unaffected by the trouble in his ’hood, so protective of his mother.

The kid who wanted to know who he was.

His pace steady, he passed Griffin and shot out ahead, so of course he worried that he’d lost his pacing, but it was too late now—you don’t drop back unless you’re out of steam and he felt strong. He had some tough competition for the run, though. Those hills.

He was gaining on the last curve, feeling a little disoriented, grabbed his bottle of water and squirted some in his mouth, swished, swallowed and bore down. He could hear a dozen cyclists on his tail and forced himself not to think about them—this was traditionally his worst event and he’d make up for it in the run if he didn’t totally deplete himself. His legs were always quivering after the ride. But before he could even think about it, he came up on the transition and his support crew was ready to intercept him.

“You shaved two minutes!” Nigel whispered excitedly.

Blake used his toes to peel off his shoes, wiped off his feet, stuck a few gel packs in his pockets, tied his running shoes quickly but carefully. Nothing worse than starting a race with a shoe that pinched. He swallowed some water, stretched out his legs and off he went.

And yeah! This was his home turf. He fixed his pace, moved his arms all over the place to stretch them out, then got comfortable. Within ten minutes seven runners had passed him and he just thought, Go for it, boys, go for it. You’ll regret that...

An hour and a half in, he got to the climb—two thousand feet in five miles. This would take out the best of them so Blake remembered the smell of pine, the softness of the breeze, then the ferocity of the wind through the mountain pass and he told himself he was just visiting this place. His pace slowed because the work he did here was monumental, so he congratulated himself on staying steady and strong. Then it was level and his pace moved up just slightly—it was tempting to take advantage of the level track and push too hard. When he did that, the last five miles were deadly. Just before the trip down, there was a water station and he stuck out an arm. Five miles more and he stuck out his arm for water again. Then he was headed down and he maintained his constant speed. He could feel the pain in his heel and he concentrated on fluidity of movement and reminded himself not to hit the trail but caress the trail. And the hours moved by steadily and his long legs ate up the distance.