Ninety-Two

NINETY-TWO

A COUPLE OF DAYS later, my own next round of chemo staring me in the face, I decide to do something I haven't done in months:

Shoot.

I know I'm not going to feel much like working out once I'm hooked up to the juice again. So I get my air rifle and BBs and head over to the Springs and my running trail near Three Mile Harbor, hoping that my targets are still where I left them on various trees along my old course.

I no longer have the ambitions I once did about competing in no-snow biathlons. I'm not even sure how my stamina will hold up tonight when I'm back on the trail, having had a couple of punk days even before the chemo begins, anticipating the next hit my body is going to take. But I'm hoping that once I'm in motion and the adrenaline kicks in, tonight will start to feel like the old days, if only for an hour or two.

That was back when I didn't know how good I had it, when life's worst, including a bad marriage, wasn't cancer.

In the end, you can only take so many beach walks with your dog, do so much work with weights and stretching in your house, and tell yourself that you're in the best possible shape, whether you've got cancer or not.

Running and stopping and shooting and then running again always made me feel like I was still a real jock.

That's the feeling I'm looking for tonight.

Being the old me for a little while.

It's past seven o'clock and I haven't eaten dinner, but I have leftover pasta to reheat. There are no plans with Dr. Ben Kalinsky because this is his poker night.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I decide I need to be in motion. Getting my heart rate up. Getting after it the way I did as the old me, feeling like I'm at the top of my game. What do the announcers always say about starting pitchers with my Mets? I'll go as hard as I can for as long as I can.

Competing only against myself again.

Story of my life.

I start out jogging, telling myself not to push it at the start, I can pick up speed later. The first target is where I left it, right before the first bend in the trail. I stop, get myself into proper shooting position, gun up over my right shoulder, look through the sight, and fire.

I miss.

Then miss again.

Badly.

But the third shot hits the center of the target.

So does the fourth.

I'm back.

I take off again.

Smiling and running free and loose and easy as I head for the third target. My breathing is good, my heart is pumping, probably more with excitement than anything else. I know this feeling, the good adrenaline that sports give you, because it's still part of my DNA, even chemo can't kill it. The only sound out here, when I'm not stopping again to fire, is my sneakers on the trail. It is, all things considered, a very active way of being peaceful.

I'm not timing myself, but can feel myself running free as if it really is the old days.

Not as tired as I ought to be.

And definitely not wanting to stop, at least not yet.

I'm the hummingbird tonight.

By the time I get to the last target and make the turn for home, I do feel as if I'm the one who's flying, head down, almost forgetting the air rifle is in my hands, it feels that light, because of my own sudden and happy lightness of being. I'm running toward the parking lot, faster than I've run all night, like I'm racing the darkness back to where I left my car.

And winning.

I finally stop at the place where I started and drink from the water bottle attached to my belt. Hydrating, like a good girl. Dr. Sam would be even prouder of me than usual.

I'm a good tired tonight.

It's because I really do feel good for a change.

When I'm about ten feet from my car, I stop.

I locked the doors before going for my run, the way I always do, especially when I'm alone out here in the night. And I locked one of my Glock 27s in the glove compartment.

Only now I can see the buttons raised through the driver's side window.

I look around.

Nobody else around in the dirt parking lot.

I get a little closer to the car and see what looks like a boot print next to the driver's side door.

Certainly not my own.

And not there when I first got out of the car.

I hear something behind me, wheel around with the air rifle, and see that it's just a raccoon disappearing into the woods.

I slowly cover the distance to my Prius, not touching the door handle, but looking inside.

There on the front seat is a menu from the Bell & Anchor, big red block letters slashed across it.

One word.

BOOM!