Dahlia Ingram was six-feet-two inches tall with legs that came up to Rose Okanese’s bicep and every inch of those long legs were encased in some futuristic-looking silver stretch pants designed to show off every bump and curve – except that Dahlia didn’t have any of those. She was a creature of bone and muscle, covered with a mop of blonde curls. Nature had designed Dahlia for one purpose: to run long distances at high speeds with effortless grace, and she, and no one else, was Rose’s competition for the Annual Okanese Marathon and Fishing Derby.

In this particular year, Dahlia had already ran three marathons, three half marathons and four 10 Ks and it was only June. This was Rose’s second race, in her lifetime. (Well, fifth if you included races she ran in elementary school). She’d done okay in those – never last, just an innocuous second or third last depending on whether or not one or both of the asthmatic Bower twins was in attendance.) She’d never had an athletic performance that resulted in someone taking her aside afterwards like the coach in Rocky and patting her on the shoulder: “Yuh got real talent, kid. But you’re still a bum.”

Rose had her bumps and curves poured into an orange tank top and a pair of black spandex shorts. The spandex shorts had been $19.99, a Walmart splurge, forced upon her by her sixteen-year-old daughter Sarah who had added, “There’s no law saying you have to be dorkiest person in the race.” Rose kept crossing her legs, subconsciously hoping that it distracted from the size of her thighs.

Probably the best thing she could do to appear smaller was to move away from the human licorice next to her. But the idea of standing alone was more frightening than appearing to be the number ten.
“I’m kind of nervous,” she blurted out.
Dahlia continued to stretch her quad muscle, her long leg bent in half like a flamingo.
“I bet you don’t get nervous, hey?” Rose continued when there was no reply. “This must be like taking a walk in a park or something? Like walking from your bedroom to your kitchen? I bet you’ll go for another run this afternoon, right? How long is this run gonna take you anyway?”

Dahlia looked at Rose like she had just noticed her for the first time. Her eyes, permanently crinkled at the corners from wind, swept from Rose’s full face, already flushed, down to her slightly protruding belly, over her knees pointing inwards to her purple and white Saucony sneakers.
“Nice shoes,” Dahlia said. Rose beamed.
“They were a gift. From my kids.”
“Mom!” Callie yelled. Rose looked over and saw her eight-year-old daughter waving a bag of cotton candy. “Did you eat?”
“I’m good, honey!” Rose called back. “That’s my daughter Callie,” she explained to Dahlia. “Do you have any?”
Dahlia shook her head. She moved into the runner’s stretch and dropped her knee down to the ground. For a tall woman, she was very flexible.
Rose tried to replicate the stretch but found her lower back laughed at her so she settled for bending forward from the waist in a bouncy motion.
“You know ten weeks ago, I hadn’t run in twenty years. I sure as hell never thought I’d be here right now, lined up at this race, next to a pro like you. Funny how life throws you into some strange situations, huh? I mean I know I’m the one who signed up for the race and I’m the one who drove myself here – so when I think about it that way, I’m the one who threw me into this. Still, it’s funny. . .”