"Dave Smeds - A Marathon Runner in the Human Race" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smeds Dave)

“I can’t wait,” Neil said, deadpan.

Neil slid gracefully into his seat, and had his door closed before Matthew
could assist. Through the open window poured the aromas of heavy dew and mulch
from the flower beds along the walkway. He sucked in a deep breath. When had his
nose ever been able to detect scents so well?

Matthew stepped away to speak to Dr. Rosen. They kept their voices so low
that Neil knew they were talking about him. Irritated, Neil deliberately turned away.

A woman was sitting on a bench about twenty yards in front of the car. The
morning sun haloed her reddish curls, giving her oval, smooth features an angelic
peace, like a Renaissance madonna, but with northern European coloring.

Neil made eye contact. She blushed, and turned her gaze to the avenue, as if
expecting someone.

Slowly, belatedly, Neil thought to smile, but it was too late. Matthew climbed
in and the vehicle pulled away.

“You really were a runner,” Matthew said, gesturing at Neil’s body. His jovial
tone seemed forced. No doubt his mind was still on whatever Dr. Rosen had told
him.

The sawdust scent of the track welled up in Neil’s mind. Hurdles skimmed his
calves. Competitors hovered in the corner of his eyes, not quite keeping pace with
his long, sure leaps and strides. The ribbon parted as his chest struck it.

“I broke a track and field record or two.” Neil waved his hand dismissively.
“Just school records, you know. I had one good season in sprints and hurdles.”

“I thought your event was the marathon.”

“That came later.”

Neil was jiggling his right leg, and tightening his fists just to gauge their
strength. Matthew kept looking at him with a cat-with-a-canary grin.

“What’s so funny?” Neil demanded.

“Those hormones are pumping now, Gramps. You’re feeling what I felt, two
months ago.”

Neil pursed his lips. “Maybe,” he said, temporarily closing the subject.

Boxes of Neil’s possessions, full of a century’s worth of packrat
accumulations, lay stacked willy-nilly all over the guest bedroom of Matthew’s
apartment. Neil clicked his tongue, estimated the capacity of the empty shelves, and
tried to imagine his collection of photographs and prints against the tobin’s egg blue