Not Your Time to Die

By Ron Stock

Believe in guardian angels? If not, you may well become a believer after reading Not Your Time to Die, thanks to Rollos hip guardian angel, Leslie. When you travel with Rollo Flowers through lifes difficulties, certain death, and emotional adversities, you be looking over your shoulder and wishing for your own guardian angel.

Rollo, an aged athlete, ends up competing in the Rio Olympics and becomes a true inspiration for all ages. Throughout his heart-pounding, stride-for-stride final race, Rollos exhilaration and excitement can be felt until he crosses the finish line to a shocking conclusion.

Through carefully crafted prose, Ron Stock encourages the reader to thoughtfully reflect on when it is anyones time to die, especially their own. Recalling your own past narrow escapes with death may well make you wonder whether a guardian angel was looking out for you too. Not Your Time to Die is a wonderful, imaginative story that fondly and humorously reflects on our own mortality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504959759

Ron Stock

Reconnecting is Ron Stock's second novel, a major departure from his first novel, the inspirational Moses, God's Blessed Donkey (Amazon and Kindle EBook). A romantic at heart, Ron Stock loves to write passionate stories with unique “Wow!” endings, which the reader will enjoy discovering in both his books. Reconnecting is grounded in witty, true-life stories of the author’s high school years in Jacksonville, Florida. Returning home for the first time in 50 years to attend his 50th high school reunion, Ron Stock, loosely veiled under the character of Rob Strand, reconnects with his fun-loving high school buddies and former girlfriends, newly single again. The result is a humorous and heart-warming story with a poignant conclusion. Now living in California with his wife of 42 years, Ron is working on his next major novel, Montebank, a mystical story interwoven with real-life elements of his grandparents’ own traveling medicine show in the Midwest of the 1930s and ’40s. Besides writing, Ron also enjoys participating in Masters Track and Field events.

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© 2015 Ron Stock. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/03/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5977-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5974-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5975-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015918216

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. [Biblica]

Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

Chapter 1 200 Meters

Chapter 2 Harvey

Chapter 3 Train Trestle

Chapter 4 Switchblade Knives

Chapter 5 Tommy and Ollie

Chapter 6 DC-8

Chapter 7 Sprinter

Chapter 8 Heaven

Chapter 9 Being There

Chapter 10 Masters Track & Field

Chapter 11 Nurse Ratched

Chapter 12 Blue Bird of Paradise

Chapter 13 Coach Kellie

Chapter 14 Chico

Chapter 15 Survivor

Chapter 16 Trash Talk

Chapter 17 Crunch Time

Chapter 18 Rio

Chapter 19 Alexandre

"See, I am sending an angel ahead of you

to guard you along the way

and to bring you to the place that I have prepared"

Exodus 23:20

Acknowledgements

I must first give my special thanks to my wife, Luci, who is my everyday inspiration to keep writing and staying in some sort of reasonable physical shape. At age fifty-five, she pried her reluctant husband off his comfortable couch and got me back running, competing in Masters track meets. Today, I am still running, albeit slower, but alive and healthy because of Luci’s encouragement delivered with loving prodding.

I especially want to thank my invaluable editor, Alexandra Napolitano, who with her professional editing skills makes this novel fun and a joy to read. In addition, I want to thank Alene Booth for her book cover graphics that makes the cover pop! Special thanks to Karelle Edwards, Canadian hurdler competing for the 2016 Olympics, who provided invaluable insight on the process of qualifying for the Olympics. Thank you all!

The author, editors, and publishers wish to thank the following for permissions to reproduce copyright materials.

Book Cover Photos: Guardian Angel White Wings photo by Firoe/Shutterstock/ ID: 280963784 and Running People at Sunset photo by Sogno Lucido/Shutterstock/ ID: 148092059.

Book Cover Graphics: Arlene Booth

Bible Quote: Scripture taken from the Holy Bible Today’s New International Version™ Copyright© 2001, 2005 By International Bible Society® All Rights Reserved.

Every effort has been made to trace rights holders, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publishers would be pleased to make the necessary arrangements at the first opportunity.

Preface

Before my mother passed away, she gave me a short note I had written sixty-five years ago when I was seven years. My mom had kept the note as a cherished belonging. I now keep the note tucked in my Bible so I can read it when I need inspiration and a chuckle.

The note is folded in a yellowed envelope and the writing is barely legible. Time has taken its toll on the paper and pencil lettering. I had printed the note as best any seven-year-old could. The spelling is atrocious, but at that age, spelling and grammar were not my strong suit.

My mother must have helped me draft the note, an invitation to my best friend Leslie, as the wording was too mature for a child. She also must have confiscated the note before I could deliver it, which explains how she was in possession of it years later.

Dear Leslie,

Will you come over my house? When you come over my house then we could make plans to beat up people we don’t like. Then we can beat them up and hide behind the garage.

Signed,

Ronnie

Today, I cannot remember who Leslie was, and I certainly cannot remember whether we actually made plans to beat up people and hide behind the garage. Since my mother had the note, Leslie never knew of my sinister suggestion. I cannot imagine I had many enemies other than Wade Boggs, who I describe in this book. He was the typical playground bully who terrorized other kids his age. It may have even been Wade who I wanted Leslie to help me beat up.

Over the years, I have encountered situations where I truly believe guardian angels helped me—starting my car’s dead battery so I could go home after a long absence in college, aiding me when stranded on a deserted highway with a flat tire, and when I felt depressed and thought my business was a lost cause. In all instances, the guardian angels appeared from literally nowhere, lent a helping hand, and vanished into thin air when I turned away for an instant. Even today, I can clearly picture them in my mind and accurately describe them. They were of varying ages, heights, race, and style of dress. Baffled by their sudden appearance and equally unexplained disappearance, I believe they were sent by God to help me.

In Not Your Time to Die, the guardian angel is named Leslie, after my friend of years ago. I believe guardian angels can save a person from dying before it really is their time, and I believe they have the abilities to make life richer and more rewarding. I bet everyone, at one time or another, can remember a stranger who helped them through a difficult situation only to disappear before they can be thanked. If a person can recall that situation, they are indeed blessed with a guardian angel in their life. If that sounds familiar, then all I ask is to please not name the guardian angel Leslie, as my guardian angel already has that name.

I hope you enjoy Not Your Time to Die.

Sincerely,

Ron Stock

One

200 Meters

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil: Olympic Stadium

By divine intervention, the Atlantic Ocean’s churning waves spawned a cold breeze, the gust moved speedily inland toward Rio de Janeiro. As the wind slid over the city’s terracotta tile rooftops, it morphed into a chilly storm wind. Making a beeline to the newly renovated Olympic stadium, the blast of unseasonable cold air coupled with the sea’s salty scent and cascaded over the stadium’s partitioned roof and onto the more than 100,000 game attendees and athletes of the 2016 Rio Summer Olympics.

The cold breeze swirled around the infield. I stood to the side of the track, patiently waiting for the start of my 200 meters race. I quickly zipped my Team USA track jacket and pulled its hood over my head covering my silver grey, lucky-to-have, full head of hair. I didn’t want my head soaked by possible rain. At seventy-three years of age, I have to work harder and longer to be ready to run a race against sprinters one-third my age. A wet and cold head of hair on this senior citizen wouldn’t help win the race.

How is it that I was on the USA Olympic team and a world-class sprinter? I owe it all to Leslie for being my lifelong protector, confidant, and heavenly guardian angel. Ten years earlier, Leslie had juiced a batch of my high dosage intravenous immunoglobulin (IVIG) treatment for sudden onset Guillain-Barré syndrome. The IVIG concoction morphed my weakened leg muscles into the fast twitch running muscles of a twenty-year-old Olympic sprinter. Now, I am among the fastest men in the world, if not the fastest.

To ready myself for my final Olympic race, I put my body and legs though an arduous set of warm up drills. My skipping and hoping routine looked like a nine-year-old child playing hopscotch. My straight leg marching drills looked like a Russian soldier marching in the Moscow May Day Parade. The side-to-side and front-to-back leg swing drills were exactly the same stretching exercises as a professional ballet performer readying for Swan Lake. To anyone in the stadium watching my warm up drills, I looked like a human-sized Pinocchio puppet being dangled about by its puppeteer. As erratic the drills looked to a layman, they did their job stretching my muscles in order to prevent injury.

Admittedly, due to the hundreds of hours of training and the pressure to win, my competitive enthusiasm had waned over the last year of training. Recently, my endurance had noticeably decreased, not enough that I couldn’t compete in Rio, but it was something I wanted my doctors to look at when I got back home. This race would be my last. Adding to my desire to leave the sport was the constant pushback from Henry Hyde, the pompous and arrogant USA Olympic Committee President.

He was quoted in a Sports Illustrated article saying, Rollo Flowers should be in rocker on a nursing home porch, not taking a spot on the Olympic team that should go to a more deserving and equally talented younger man.

In his USA Olympic Athletes’ Guide, Henry wanted the team members to look like GQ and Vogue models. My photo looks like an AARP poster. Unfortunately for Henry, the Olympics is about the fastest time, the furthest throw, the highest or longest jump, not about how beautiful or intelligent an athlete may be. Many great and noted Olympians were certainly not the brightest bulbs in the chandelier.

With the 200 meters trials completed the day before, six of my competitors for the final race were from countries other than the USA. The sprinters hailed from Canada, Russia, France, Germany, and two Jamaicans. One of the Jamaicans attended the University of Arkansas on a track scholarship, but declared Jamaica as his homeland.

The other competitor was my teammate, Duncan Jones, who attended UCLA on a track scholarship for two years before dropping out for failing to meet the academic requirements. Then, Duncan competed year-round on the professional tour, running for the money and fame. Duncan needed an Olympic win at the games to keep his sponsorships and endorsements intact. Those endorsements mean hundreds of thousands of dollars, which translated into diamond earrings, solid gold necklaces, two Cadillac Escalades, and a Malibu condo stocked with highly rated wines and B-list Hollywood starlets; Duncan liked the high life.

Personally, I didn’t put my name or face on products, especially not medical devices, adult diapers, or drugs for the elderly. Admittedly, at my age, I was a natural for ad campaigns for hemorrhoid suppositories, muscle balms, and erectile dysfunction drugs. Sponsorships and endorsement money means you are behooved to attend the company’s public relations events, to mingle with their clients and pose for photos with family members and their irritating children. Having invested well over the years in Californian real estate, I really didn’t need the money nor did I desire the fame. Simply, I ran to win—to experience the thrill of victory. Crossing the finish line in front of seven other sprinters is an indescribable experience. No amount of money or fame can replicate that feeling.

The sprinters stripped away their colorful warm up outfits and were taking practice starts. As competitors sprinted by me, I could see a certain distain in their eyes. In lane #4, Duncan wouldn’t glance in my direction, possibly because earlier in the week, I beat him in the 100 meters race. My 9.97 winning time was not an official world record, almost 0.4 seconds off of Usain Bolt’s 9.58 world record, but for someone my age, the 9.97 time was eye-popping.

The next time Duncan came by me, I tried eliciting a smile from him, at least to acknowledge that we were both on the same team. Hey Duncan, let’s beat those Jamaicans. They’ve got great coffee in Jamaica. They don’t need a gold and silver medal to brag about.

As expected, Duncan blew me off, no smile, no, Yeah! Let’s win one for the USA! Nothing. That attitude from a fellow teammate is another reason I intended to hang up my spikes. I couldn’t deal with the narcissism of many professional athletes, Duncan Jones included. This would be my last race, and I was running for God, country, and family.

I stood alone, just off lane #8 at the top of the track’s curve. My area of the track was poorly lit, a mistake of the lowest bidding Brazilian lighting company. The stadium’s light pole for this area of the track was forty meters further down the track than where it should have been placed in order to provide even illumination for all lanes of the 200 meters race. The lack of lighting created a patch of darkness just off the track that ran all the way to the cinderblock retaining wall.

Suddenly, something in the dark area moved towards me triggering my fight or flight endorphins. I desperately stared into the blackness hoping my aged eyesight could determine if I was in trouble. I shut my eyes tightly to clear the light and then I quickly opened them. There at the edge of the dark area stood Leslie, my friend, my guardian angel.

Leslie, you just scared the crap out of me.

He walked into the light. Sorry, I couldn’t find a good place to hold up until your race started. I left Lucia in the stands, telling her I wanted to find you and wish you good luck. I’ll be back with her before the start of the race.

When in human form, Leslie was handsome, physically trim, slightly over six feet tall with blondish hair. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Over the past ten years, Leslie doubled as both my guardian angel and Harvey, my associate sprinting trainer, seen in human form by Coach Kellie, my full time coach, and Lucia, my beautiful wife of forty-six years. Neither Coach Kellie nor Lucia was aware of Harvey’s true identity.

Tonight, Leslie wore what he termed Copacabana casual: white slacks and shirt, powder blue Polo sweater across his shoulders, and white Gucci loafers. For an angel, Leslie could be quite stylish. He could appear in any outlandish costume he wanted, from top hat and ascot formal to backyard barbeque and kiss-the-cook casual. This mystical trait of guardian angels was helpful in blending into the crowd and being appropriate for the time and occasion.

Leslie, you’re looking pretty spiffy tonight, not like Harvey’s typical sweat suits. Do you have a hot date later?

Don’t be a smartass, Rollo. You know guardian angels don’t date or want to date. We are spiritual, no hormones—completely asexual.

Sensing Leslie’s irritation with my teasing him, I quickly changed the subject. Leslie, I owe you and Coach Kellie for getting me to the Olympics and in this final 200 meters. My win in the 100 meters, I credit to both of you.

Continuing, I said, For the 100 meters final, I looked for you at the finish line, but I couldn’t find you. Did you see my photo finish win? A 73-year-old man winning the Olympic 100 meters. Unbelievable!

No, it was tip of your nose that gave the win over Duncan Jones. Leslie laughed. You can thank God for your handsome nose that gave you the win. Another meter and Duncan would have the gold medal, and, oh boy, was he pissed you took it.

Leslie, angels aren’t supposed to cuss. Isn’t ‘pissed’ a cuss word?

Maybe, I’ll have to ask God the next time I’m home. Then, in a serious tone, he said, You are the symbol to the world that age has no limits achieving greatness. Consider Michelangelo, he painted the Mona Lisa when he was in his fifties.

Yeah, but I am a freak of His miracle-healing handy work.

God created man who, through man’s intelligence, created the medicine that healed your weak leg muscles. Thank God for creating Adam and Eve, the ancestors of great physicians and scientists, especially the scientist who devised the remedy for your disease.

Well, God did a great job. I’m septuagenarian Olympic champion, maybe a double champion if I win this race too.

Leslie smiled. You will decide the outcome of this race. God is a spectator, just like the other hundred thousand folks in this stadium. He is proud of the way you have handled the notoriety. You have helped achieve His desire for children to give their parents and elders the respect and love they deserve. He has a plan for you.

Engrossed in the warm-ups for the 200 meters final, the spectators were not aware of the huge, foreboding, jet-black raven circling hundreds of feet above the stadium’s roof. The size of a condor, the raven’s wingspan extended more than twelve feet; its fiery red eyes focused on a patch of darkness near the track. In the shape of this monstrous bird was Satan, the king of Hell. Idis, one of his dark angels, observed from the shadows.

Farther down the track, in the same pitch-black area, a seductive woman’s voice came our way. Well, I see God has one of His best guardian angels competing against me tonight.

Leslie laughed. Idis, come out of the shadows so I can introduce you to Rollo Flowers. Rollo has never met a fallen angel. Maybe he accidentally rubbed elbows with one of you, but didn’t recognize one of Lucifer’s own.

From the shadows came a willowy, attractive woman. She appeared a few years younger than Leslie with black flowing hair and swarthy skin. She was dressed in a black tracksuit and black sandals. Rollo, this is Idis, one of the more famous fallen angels.

I was spellbound by the beautiful, dark-eyed woman. Leslie continued, Remember Sodom and Gomorrah? God told Lot and his wife not to look back as he punished the city for its wicked immorality and debauchery. Lot’s wife turned to look one more time, her heart still with Gomorrah, which displeased God and he turned Lot’s wife to salt. She became one of the first female fallen angels. Well, Idis was Lot’s wife. Now, she uses her talents to turn weak-kneed men into Satan’s recruits.

I shamelessly gawked at Idis, her beauty dazzling, and uttered, Uh, hello.

Idis laughed in a low seductive voice. Hell…o. Now, that is funny. Leslie loves telling everyone my background, especially the part where I was turned into salt. Not exactly a fun experience, but hey, here I am. Rollo—it is Rollo, right? Would you like to kiss me to see if I really am salty?

Terrified and face-to-face with a fallen angel, I muttered, No, thank you. I’ll take your word for it. Idis laughed, sending chills up my body.

Leslie noticed I was shaken by her presence. Well, Idis, what brings you here tonight and why are you lurking in the shadows?

I have some skin in this race, she said as she dragged her forefinger across her bright red lips. With a kiss to seal the bargain, one of the athletes in this race sold his soul to Satan, she paused, observing our reaction, in exchange for the win.

Wide-eyed, I sputtered, You fixed the race? Which sprinter gave into your wicked promises? I looked down the track. Is it one of the Jamaicans? They’re into that voodoo stuff. Or is it the Russian? They’re unscrupulous and would pay to win at any costs—drugs, bribery, even kissing a wicked angel. Leslie, who is it?

Leslie laughed. Idis doesn’t have the power to fix a race or much else. She leads men and women to cross moral lines. Those who sell out to her kind for the promise of riches and fame become adulterers and thieves, or worse—murderers.

My brow furrowed. But she guaranteed him the win.

Leslie looked at me and shook his head, as if disgusted I would think Idis could change the outcome of my impending race. In this race, Idis only gave one of the sprinters the false promise of a win. If by chance he does win, he’ll always think Idis and Satan made it happen. If her sprinter loses, Idis will blame it on me or any other guardian angels floating around tonight. Either way, it will serve her purpose. The sprinter will hate God and all He stands for. It’s a win-win for Idis and Satan.

Idis sauntered up to Leslie. You pretty much nailed it; I get the poor soul either way. She laughed. Poor soul, I get the soul from some poor jerk—get it?

Leslie shook his head. If it wasn’t for Satan in the Garden of Eden, this would be a much different world. All you do is lead good folks down the path of self-destruction.

Oh, come on, Leslie. We both play the game of souls and assignments, just for different bosses.

As I watched Leslie and Idis banter, the bell sounded to alert the field of sprinters to go to their assigned lanes. I quickly shed my warm ups and headed to lane #5.

All running tracks—high school, college, and Olympic—are oblong in shape, four hundred meters around the oblong measured from the inside lane, and comprised of eight running lanes. The eight lanes encompass the running track’s curved and straight sections. That means in a 200 meters race, half of the distance is on the curved portion of the track. Due to the sprinter’s speed, as they run the track’s curved section, they actually experience a gradual centrifugal force pulling them to the inside of the track. Sprinters learn critical strategies and techniques on how to run the curve. The outcome of a 200 meters race is dependent on the sprinters’ abilities to successfully run the curve.

Because my qualifying time was one of the fastest, I was assigned lane #5, one of the preferred lanes for this race. The starting line for each sprinter is staggered about 3.5 meters from the next inside lane. This is make sure all sprinters run exactly 200 meters, as the further the lane is from the inside lane, the longer the distance around. The staggered starting line makes up increased distance. Lane #5 gave me a good view of my competitors in lanes #6, #7, and #8. Lane #5 in a 200 meters race is considered one of the faster lanes as the sprinter runs the curve in an upward stance. Lane #1 is the tightest section of the curve, meaning the sprinter assigned lane #1 is at a real disadvantage. They must run the curve at a sharp body angle, which can significantly reduce their forward speed and therefore their final time. In a 200 meters race, sprinters running in lane #1 seldom win the race.

Standing behind my starting blocks, I surveyed each of my competitors, trying to determine who sold their soul. The Jamaicans were laughing and teased each other about who would win, the French and German were cordially exchanging handshakes, the zombie-like Russian’s cold stare told me he wouldn’t give Idis the time of day; his soul belonged to Mother Russia. That left my fellow USA competitor, Duncan Jones.

When I tried to catch Duncan’s eyes to nod and wish him well in the race, Duncan was staring into the dark area of the track where Leslie and Idis were standing. A shock ran down my spine; Duncan could see Idis in the shadows, but he couldn’t see Leslie. Since Idis made herself visible to me, I could see both of them. Duncan’s focused stare at Idis was a clear indication that Duncan sold his soul for the sake of a win, a medal, and short-term notoriety. I was determined to beat him; I wanted to prove that good trumps evil. Maybe after the race, I could talk with him and set him straight about God and Satan. Then again, maybe he couldn’t care less.

Runners, go to your blocks.

I turned and looked quickly at Duncan again, his face contorted into a frightening, distorted smile. I thought to myself, My God, Idis has control of Duncan. I looked to where Leslie and Idis stood in the dark and saw nothing but darkness. They were gone. There was nothing I could do but try to win.

I settled down into the starting blocks. The cold wind blew steadily down the track into my face. Because of the cold headwind, I knew it would be a very slow 200 meters—no world record tonight. Maybe God wanted us to battle His elements and the race’s winner would be the competitor who overcame them. In one of the Aesop’s fables, the wind battled the sun to see who could get a man to remove his jacket; the sun won bragging rights. Tonight, the cold and wind were competing to see which one could change the outcome of the race. The cold caused the runners’ muscles to tighten and slow. The wind created a physical resistance. In tandem, they made a worthy opponent.

At six feet tall and two hundred pounds, my muscular body classified me as a power sprinter compared to sprinters with smaller and wirier builds. Tonight, my strength and size would readily cut through the headwind on the front of end of the track. Maybe tonight God created the cold and wind to equalize Satan and Idis’s shenanigans. While tucking my small silver cross and chain into my singlet, I quickly crossed myself.

Dear God, let me run a good race in honor of Your Majesty.

Maria Espinosa, the race starter, was an attractive and trim middle-aged woman with salt and pepper hair. Her instructions were specific and rang out in a clear, slightly accented voice with a hint of levity.

No false starts or I will pull out my real pistol and shoot you.

I thought her attempt to settle the group was funny, but the Russian just stared at her, not cracking a smile. Maybe they actually shoot runners who falsely start in Russia.

Sprinters are like a tightly wound clock, the slightest over winding and their springs can explode, uncoiling in all directions. After the starter’s command, sprinters