Trip The Runner

By Andrew Rolston

When he won an Olympic Gold Medal, Trip Harrington was on top of his game and on top of the world. Years later, he's still reliving that victory and thinks he can sail on the honor. But in his small town, he's the only one who feels that way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543989243

Book preview

Trip The Runner

Andrew Rolston

Copyright © Andrew Rolston, 2019

ISBN: 978-1-54398-924-3

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

All the gold which is under or upon the earth is not enough to give in exchange for virtue.

- Plato

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

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 of the whole experience had made it even more like a dream. A dream from which he had never wanted to wake up.

Trip? You up? His mother’s voice shattered the lovely vision and brought him back to his tiny bathroom.

Yeah, Mom. One minute. He stepped out of his pajama pants and boxers and noticed that the pants had a hole worn in the crotch. Shoot. He’d have to go shopping.

He stepped into a scalding hot shower and smiled again. It always gave the locals a thrill to see him in places like the department store. He would have to bring some headshots with him in case anyone asked for an autograph.

*****

Across town, Rose Barrington blinked and opened her eyes. She was looking straight up to old wooden slats that let in slices of soft blue sky. It took her a moment to realize she’d fallen asleep in the barn.

The goats! The memory made her sit up in a heart-pounding panic. She looked all around and spotted it — the little white newborn that had given its mother so much trouble the night before. The little thing was curled up on a blanket she had put out and was flicking its tiny tail as it slept.

Rose fell back into the pile of straw below her with a big sigh of relief. A new goat was good news; she could add it to her flock and sell a male and female to a local farm in need of more animals. Also, a new mama meant more goat’s milk, and that meant more business.

The click of hooves caught her attention, and she turned to see Violet, the baby goat’s mother. Violet flicked her ears at Rose and tilted her sweet face at the unusual human in the hay. Rose rolled out of the hay and down onto the barn floor at Violet’s feet.

We had quite a night, Violet, Rose said, her voice struggling to make words. She could feel that familiar, tired ache deep in her bones, but she knew today was not a day to lie around the house. She had work to do. Rose rubbed her face and pulled her fingers through her long, hair. The goat bleated at her and flicked her ears again.

I know, I know. I’m up. Rose stood and brushed straw from her jeans and shirt. She rubbed the goat’s muzzle. I suppose if you’re so chipper after bringing life into the world, I can handle a little work.

The mother goat went and stood close to her new kid. He stood on wobbly legs and pressed his soft nose up to her udders and began to suckle, making little satisfied grunts as it did. Rose watched them for a moment, her heart warming at the sight. The mother goat looked at Rose and almost seemed to smile. The act of feeding her child appeared to give her deep satisfaction.

Rose left the two to have a moment to themselves and stepped outside. The sun was already rising, and the birds in the big tree outside the barn were hopping from branch to branch, scolding her for sleeping so long. She continued on to the little farmhouse where she could see her father, Phillip Barrington, moving behind the windows. He was sipping from his old, metal coffee cup and staring off at nothing. Rose pulled open the screen door and stepped in, catching his attention.

Morning, Dad. Her father bent so she could give him a kiss. Even so, she still had to stand on her tiptoes to reach his cheek. When she put her hand on his back, she could feel his farm-tough muscles under his work shirt.

Good morning, my one and only. He blushed a little and gave her a soft side hug. They let each other go, and Rose walked over to pour herself a cup of coffee.

So, her father inquired, Do we have a new life to celebrate this morning?

We do, Rose confirmed, smiling. A little boy. All white, just like his mother. She shook her head, wondering at the miracle of the morning. Isn’t it incredible, Dad? One minute, it’s just us on this earth. Then the next, we have a whole new being, a new member of the flock right here. She snapped her fingers. Just like that. Boom. Everything is different.

Her father nodded. Yup. I suppose. He downed the last of his coffee and rinsed his cup in the sink. His morning ritual fulfilled, he nodded at his daughter and went out to drive the property. He started every day this way, with a thorough check of the fences and gates so the cows could graze without getting out.

Rose finished her coffee and took her cup to the sink. She splashed the cold, bracing water on her face. The shock of it chased the last of her warm sleepiness away, and she got down to business.

As a girl, Rose had taken her time preparing for each day, a habit she’d been able to indulge when her mother was still with them. She would spend long minutes gazing at her closet, laying out dresses to choose from and considering each one, all while listening to music on the radio. No such leisure was available anymore — after her mother’s death, everything was suddenly on a timer. A shower —five minutes. Getting dressed —two minutes. And thirty seconds max to put on and lace up her shoes. Rose swore she could hear the stopwatch in her head.

Life with her father and her father only, no mother helping out with laundry, cooking, the animals, or the banking meant that it all fell on her. In true Dewdale tradition, Phillip Barrington had never learned to cook or clean, confident his whole life that a lovely woman would care for him and his house. Why iron? Women did that. Cook? No need, he had a wife.

Of course, when the woman of the house passes away, these duties fall to the children she leaves behind. And Rose, now in her late twenties, had no discernible plans for living on her own, attending college, or moving to another town. She didn’t feel she could go anywhere, not while her father lived and needed her more and more every day.

She showered quickly, only taking one extra minute to shampoo her long hair. She grabbed one of her cream-colored soaps in the shower and promptly scrubbed the night’s work from her skin. This particular bar was a lemon-rosemary, and the combination of its woody and citrus scent boosted her optimism for the day. It was hard to feel anything but positive once a person smelled so lovely.

She walked out in two towels — one for her body, one wrapped around her head like a turban. Her hair was so long now that she needed this whole new ritual to get it dry. She pulled on her underthings, then unwound the towel on her head and let her damp hair fall onto her shoulders. She gathered it all up and bent at the waist so her head hung upside down. In that position, she could see the portrait she had hung low and upside down on the wall in memoriam.

Hi Mom, she said out loud, staying upside down as long as she could to look at the lovely smile that the photographer had captured so well. That was how she remembered her mother; about to burst into a laugh, humming to herself, ready to pose for a picture. Rose flipped up and, as she did every morning, studied her own reflection in the mirror for any sign of the mother who had left the earth far too soon.

******

The smell of salt and fat beckoned Trip nose to the kitchen. Now fully dressed, he strode down the hall in his favorite red tracksuit, his medal nestled comfortably against his chest. He grinned at the smell. He turned the corner and saw his mother making her standard and his favorite: bacon, eggs, and toast. Next to her was a plate of the crisp, oily bacon strips draining onto a paper towel. He sidled up next to her and snagged a piece of bacon.

Mom, he said, do you know you’re the best cook in Dewdale? Maybe in all the world?

His mother giggled at their old joke. Every morning he complimented her skills; she washed the dishes until they sparkled, the laundry was always correctly folded, his bedroom was spotless. In return, she ignored the amount of fried pork her son ate every day.

You flatter me, my dear. Go sit down and have some juice. She angled her cheek out for a kiss, and he complied, giving her a soft little peck. He took his seat and poured a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

He heard his father’s tired, heavy footsteps walk in as he gulped from the short glass and their eyes met for an uncomfortable moment.

Son.

Father.

Bob Harrington, the man of the house and local money-lending expert, hiked up his slacks and re-tucked his button-down shirt just a bit tighter before joining his son at the table. He settled into his chair with a heavy sigh and reached for the carafe of juice. His eyes landed on the paunch growing at his son’s waistline as he did so.

So, Bob began as he had so many mornings before, Trip. Why don’t you go out for a run today?

Trip rolled his eyes. Dad, I know you want me to start training again.

Bob waited for the second half of that statement, but his son was already grabbing at the strips of bacon that had arrived at the table. Trip’s mother joined them and he noticed she made no move to eat anything – just sipped her coffee.

Bob shook his head and tried again. What’s so terrible about you getting back into your regimen? I see no problem with it. What else have you got going on today?

Actually, Trip countered, mouth full and chomping as he spoke, I’m injured. I have a bad wrist.

The mention of an injury made Trip’s mother clutch at her chest and reach out for his shoulder. Poor darling! Do you need some ice?

He nodded, eyes downcast to express the delicacy of the situation. His mother jumped out of her chair to make an ice pack while his father crossed his arms and glared at the son who had once been the source of all his pride.

Since when do you run with your wrist?

Trip shrugged. Can’t work out with an injury, Dad. He reached for more bacon, but his father pulled the plate away. Hey! Come on, I need the protein.

"You need lean protein, his dad corrected, pointing at Trip’s protruding stomach which was pressed up against the table. This stuff is what’s getting

Reviews for Trip The Runner

[hvosselman · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A sweet and funny book about an unusual small-town romance

[tonyalmon · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It’s a nice slice of life romantic romance with humor

[Seema Ullal · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Smart, witty and quite enjoyable. This is a must read.

[Jewell · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Not what I expected at all! It tells the story of a former Olympic medal winner who is now in his thirties and still stays at home with his parents. The main character Trip is arrogant, lazy, a bit of a narcissist and quite un-likeable at the start. He meets a girl who looks after goats called Rose and falls in love. However their love affair is not a straight forward one. The tale is funny, charming and heart warming! I absolutely loved listening to it. The narrator told the story beautifully. I will look out for more from this author.

[forestdrus1602 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was not sure what to expect. It was a quick, light read. Uplifting story about a man who needed to grow up and he did. It makes one think about taking a look at their own self and make changes to be a better person

[Michael McElroy · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A cute and funny love story. Well worth the read.