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Ironman EPB

TO: Larry King

RE: Exclusive rights to an hour-long interview immediately prior to publication of the soon-to-be highly-sought-after memoirs of our country's future premier Ironman, Beauregard Brewster, in the year of his quest to conquer the field in Yukon Jack's Eastern Washington invitational Scabland Triathlon.

OCTOBER 10

Dear Larry,

At 4:30 each morning I awaken to your voice. I lie transfixed until five-when I haul my aching body out of the sack for another in a series of infinite workoutslistening to the wise men and loons of yesterday's airways deliver opinions on everything from the hole in the ozone layer (it covers an area larger than the United States) to antidepressants (Dick Cavett and Patty Duke swear by them; Scientologists swear at them) to racism (you smell out racial prejudice like my father smells out Democrats) to the most effective methods to forever rid oneself of fat globules and cellulite (there aren't any) to the whereabouts of Elvis (Jeffrey Dahmer ate him). What I like about you is, you listen. You interview politicians and movie stars and musicians and every kind of hero and villain. And authors. When you are finally accorded the privilege of reaching across the mike to shake my sweaty hand, I'll be one of those. It's gonna be a career-making interview, Larry, and to give you full opportunity for the preparation it deserves, I've decided to leak the memoirs to you as they happen.

I am aware from your numerous comments that you have not long been such a prudent caretaker of your physical self (your heart attack set you in the right direction)and may not know that a triathlete (AKA Ironman) is a swimming, bicycling, running lunatic, willing and able to cover great distances at high speeds while enduring extreme physical pain. That's me, Lar, and you shall be privy to the circumstances surrounding my voyage beyond human physical limits in my crusade to finish Yukon Jack's E. W. Invitational Scabland extravaganza alive, and well ahead of all competitors under voting age. You should know that Yukon Jack's is not your run of the mill, rapid -stroll -through -hell event. Distances in a normal, Olympic-length triathlon are such that participants spend approximately twice as much time cycling as they do running or swimming, giving a definite edge to the good bikers. But Yukon Jack, AKA Jack McCoy, is a two-time English Channel swimmer and a three-time finisher of the Western States 100-mile ultramarathon, and he's the first person to tell you he thinks most cyclists are more interested in displaying their tight, multicolored costumes than they are in "gettin' down to some real physical exercise," so he shaved their edge off this particular event by doubling the swimming distance and halving the biking distance. All that works to my advantage because I love to train swimming and running, but whenever I ride a bike more than three blocks, I feel the need for major surgery to remove that skinny little seat.

Unfortunately, to reach the physical, spiritual, and emotional heights required to conquer this event, I must also endure my regular life and the mortals who would stand in my way. One of those mortals, not the greatest nor the least, would be Keith Redmond, my English teacher and the head football coach at Clark Fork High School. Redmond has not forgiven my cardinal sin of walking out on the football team on the second day of two-a-days this year because I took issue—quite vocally, I have to admit—with his practice of public humiliation as a motivator. I'm a bit on the skinny side, though I like to call it wiry, so you wouldn't think by looking at me that any football coach would spend more than fifteen seconds grieving my departure, but I've got some sticky fingers when it comes to hauling in the old pigskin, and Redmond was expecting league-leading numbers out of me this season. So when I took my eyes off a ball I should have caught, because I was burrowing into the grass to avoid crippling whiplash at the hands of Kyle Gifford—who mounts on his bedroom wall pictures of teammates whose seasons he has ended—Redmond stormed into my face, battering at my chest as if his index finger were a woodpecker, and demanded at maximum decibels for me to declare my gender. It was our third confrontation of the day, so I told him I was a sissy and he was an asshole, and I threw down my helmet and headed for the showers.

Looking back it was probably an overreaction, but I don't do well with degradation, and that isn't likely to change. I could have saved myself a lot of grief if I'd transferred out of Coach's Senior English class because he makes no secret about what he thinks of quitters, but I thought I owed it to him to hang around and torment him a little. it was a bad idea.

This morning Mr. Serbousek stepped into the hall between second and third periods, motioning me into his classroom. He said, "Congratulations, Brewster, you're over the top. You have my unofficial county record."

Damn. "Redmond got me suspended." it was not a question.

"Looks that way."

"How long?"

Mr. S said, "Indefinitely."

"That's a long time."

"You want the exit speech?"

"About holding my temper?"

He nodded.

"About accountability? About being seventeen years old and an infinitesimal quarter-step from adulthood?" I squinted, indicating an infinitesimal quarter-step between my thumb and forefinger. "About being held responsible for my own actions? Managing my impulses?"

Mr. S smiled. "If anyone asks, tell them I said those things."