'Sacmis' (formerly 'Alien Abduction')

Chapter 2: The Athlete

It was 6 a.m. and the winter sun was just rising above the hills.

Five miles into her morning run, Kate was struck by the same thought that struck her every day: ‘Why, why am I doing this?’

As her running shoes splashed through puddles of half-frozen mud, she thought back over five years of continuous training that had taken her first to county standard, then to the national championships, the Commonwealth Games and now - finally - within actual reach of Olympic selection.

But right now, as her throat burned from the cold air, all the could think of were the sacrifices. The rigorous diet that excluded almost anything that was enjoyable; the challenge of balancing the day job against a punishing training schedule; the loss of anything that could reasonably be called a social life and, as for sex, it took her at least twenty more long-legged strides to realise she couldn’t remember the last time. 

Actually, she could – it had been David: poor patient, long-suffering David, trying his best to fit into her routine then, like the others, fading away in search of a partner that could offer the things she couldn’t: availability and being able to share a bottle of wine and a pizza.

As if to punish herself for lapsing into self-pity, she upped her pace, checking her heart rate on the running computer strapped to her wrist. It was spot-on, but failed to give her the usual glow of satisfaction.

To make things even worse, all this exercise had a powerful effect on her sex-drive. It was well-documented that physical exercise released endorphins into the bloodstream which, in turn, increased the desire for sex – a frequent topic of giggled conversations among the girls in the changing rooms. Swiftly followed by universal disappointment in their fellow male athletes. 

Most of the guys were worried about sex taking the edge off and were so focused on their athletic goals it made them dull company. Driven, fit - but dull. Their one-track minds led to the finishing line, not the bedroom. And that was leaving aside the competition for the full-length mirror: ‘How do my abs look to you’ was hardly the best invitation to intimacy.

And she had every right to the mirror herself. Long-legged and slim, with a sweet face and a cute blonde bob. But she had also achieved her perfect athletic build without the stringiness that afflicted so many women athletes. (‘Does my bum look big in this?’ was rarely heard in the changing rooms.) It was a source of no little pride that she even still had breasts.

What she most longed for was to abandon everything: the training regime, the ambition, the constant pressure to shave off those extra seconds. But most of all, she longed to abandon herself. To give herself body and soul to someone thrilled to catch her safely in his arms.

So preoccupied was she by this image in her mind that she almost failed to notice that she had reached the stile that marked her half-way point. But today, it seemed there was something odd about it. A brightness that made it stand out from the surrounding landscape, with a shimmering quality that hurt her eyes. Then there was a sort of humming sound that seemed to synchronise with the vibrating light. As her hand touched the bar of the stile, she suddenly felt weak, as if every finely-toned muscle in her body had turned to jelly. She began to fall, starting to lose consciousness and, just as she passed out, she was left with the distinct impression of strong hands catching her.

© Adriana Nicolas 2014