Trip the Runner - Andrew Rolston
Chapter I
Florence Harrington knocked on her son’s bedroom door at eight o’clock on Thursday morning with her usual soft tap tap tap. She liked to knock and step in at the same time because she always found the same arrangement on the inside. And, as she’d envisioned him, there was her tall son – his large feet poking out from under his blanket, his shaggy dark hair a molded mess on his head. Certain sections shot straight up out of his crown while others were pressed to his face or against his pillow. She smiled at the sight of him as she tiptoed forward to grab his biggest toe.
“Trip,” she whispered, wiggling the bulbous, callused thing, “time to get up.”
“Huh?”
“It’s eight o’clock, sweetheart. Breakfast will be ready in about twenty minutes.”
He rubbed his eyes but kept them closed. “Sure mom. Great. Be there in a minute.”
Her work complete, Florence smiled down at her son. She loved his strong, chiseled face and tall frame. His pajamas were the same he had worn since his years in high school; faded blue with faint, vertical stripes. They were too short for him now, and almost paper thin with wear, but he refused to buy new ones. He was a sentimental creature, like his mother.
She left him and walked down the hall to the kitchen to start frying some eggs and bacon, a favorite in their house. Florence hummed a little tune as she cracked egg shells and laid down slivers of bacon in a hot pan. It was going to be a good day. She could feel it.
Trip’s mood was much darker. He snuck in a few more minutes of sleep or tried to, but his doting mother’s love had successfully done away with his rest. He let out a big groan and stretched his long frame, pointing his toes and pushing his arms overhead. Oh well. Might as well get up.
He swung his big legs over the side of the bed and sat up, making sure to suck in his breath. He had to do that more and more in order to give his stomach that flat appearance he loved so much. He was sure no one else had noticed the pouch that was developing over what was surely a layer of tight muscle, but one could never be too careful.
Trip could remember when he used to jump out of bed to do thirty pushups and then forty squats. When had he stopped? He tried to remember, but the corners of his mind were fuzzy with sleep. Perhaps today was the day to get back into his morning routine. He got down on the floor in a pushup position and instantly felt a shooting pain go up from his wrist up into his arm. His knees dropped immediately and he sat up, rubbing the injured joint. Shame. No exercise today. He stood and went into the bathroom where he could see himself in the mirror.
The first thing he noticed was the absolute atrocity on top of his head. He ran his fingers through it, but it sprang right back into a chaotic mess. He chuckled and considered leaving it like that. The thought of Trip Harrington, local town hero and all-around hunk walking around their small town, Dewdale, with this crazy hairstyle made him smile. He unbuttoned his pajama shirt and stopped a moment to regard the treasure underneath; his very own Olympic gold medal. It flashed in the mirror and winked at him, shining in the bathroom light. Had any piece of metal ever looked so perfect?
He had won it twelve years ago. Track. He could still remember that glorious week of competition. Walking out with the athletes in the opening ceremony, hanging out in the Olympic village with the world’s best athletes — it had been amazing. The girls were startlingly beautiful and in perfect shape there. The men were chivalrous and focused. No one drank, no one ate junk food; they had all sacrificed and bled and prayed to be there. It was a dream come true for each of them. No one wanted to throw away the amazing opportunity by indulging in risky behavior.
Trip held the medal in his hand and felt the seamless weight of the gold disc. In order to win it, he had pushed his body so hard he had felt as if his lungs would explode. So much sweat had run into his eyes that he barely saw the finish line. The soft, blurry shapes