Chapter 1: Oppositional

      "Need a hand?" I call to a woman-on-wheels splayed across the creaky slats of a banked wooden track circling twenty feet above the worn parquet floor of a tiny basketball court.

"Never!" she fairly yells with a quick flash of anger, scrambling onto her purple-pommed skates before skidding in a flailing panic down into the flimsy railing with an ominous crack. 

     The Old Gym at Gibson-Henry College was being replaced in 1980 by a state-of-the-art structure replete with twin courts, olympic pool, and separate men's and women's locker rooms. The piedmont Virginia school had only started admitting girls in 1971, and facilities were slowly following suit one building at a time.

     The equalizing sex ratio during my three years there was just fine for a newly trim body. I'd started out as an overweight trainer for the developing women's sports programs. Then one of the softball players, a senior exchange student from France, had allured me into running with her. Initially it was more like jog-walking behind her, also fine with me for the excellent view, but I eventually got my wind for her long runs into first the foothills of the Blue Ridge and then the hills and hollows of her dorm room. 

     Now it was a year later, Marie-Josee was gone, and running on the indoor track was a despised but necessary compromise to continuity of training during a chilly spring rain.

     "Need help?" I proffer, lunging to grasp an oversized violet sweatshirt before her lithe frame slips through the rails. 

"Hands off!" she commands, quickly converting her panicked expression to a scowl.

"Enzo Januzzi at your service," I bow, stepping away to resume my indoor run.

"Don't make me puke," she glowers, wobbling the opposite way toward the stairs.