An Unexpected Outcome

The radio alarm went off, and I sluggishly tested my body, slowly working out the effects of a good night's sleep. As I lay there, listening to the news of British Leyland's strike crisis, the announcer reminded me that it was Sunday and the six o'clock alarm was an unnecessary intrusion into my dreams. I silenced the villain and pulled the blankets tightly up over my shoulders. But habit prevailed, and I lay there awake, weighing the balance of a lonely Sunday morning run on a bleak London day against the warmth of my bed. 

Then, through my bleary eyes, I saw it:  the hint of a blue sky beyond the curtained window, arousing my curiosity and my body from its warm, comfortable position. Although not wholly daybreak, it appeared to be a virtually cloudless day, a rarity for London and enough to motivate me to pull on my running shorts and shirt, lace up my New Balance trainers, do some stretching, and go down the stairs from my third-floor walk-up Kensington flat. As I struggled with the massive Chubb keys, forcing them into my shoe pocket, the loneliness of the day's run began to come into focus.

It was 1981, and I had been in London for approximately six months following my promotion to head up the international marketing department of TWA-Trans World Airlines. I loved the job, but moving from sunny Los Angeles as a married man with two daughters to a mostly overcast London as a divorced man living alone was jarring. In addition, I was constantly reminded that I was a foreigner by the slight but often puzzling language difference, the English culture, and, most dangerously, the reverse traffic flow.  As an American, I automatically looked left while jogging across a street, and it was only the roar of a huge red London Transport double-decker bus bearing down on me from the right that saved me.

During the week, my colleagues at work and my constant traveling helped me overcome the loneliness of being away from friends and family back home, but the weekends were different. I missed my daughters, and I missed companionship. A few co-workers tried to help by fixing me up with dates, but they hadn't gone well. Pubs are a big part of English social life, but to me, they're still bars, especially as I didn't know anyone there. It also seemed strange to hold a glass of red wine while my date held her pint of lager. It wasn't for lack of effort or times at bat, but I just couldn't connect. So, I threw myself into running and let my imagination run along with me.

London is an extremely cosmopolitan city, and the conversations overheard are often in foreign languages. Knowing that, I let my imagination have a field day, assigning nationalities to the many runners I shared Hyde Park with. There was the "Russian" in his red shirt, a tall "Kenyan" with antelope-like strides, a "Frenchman" in a sweatshirt that said something in French, and a "Californian" with his color-coordinated sweat suit, shoes, hat, bottle of Evian and Sony Walkman. I didn't know them, but they were my imaginary "friends." 

Sadly, my friends weren't there on the weekends, so it was just me and the familiar scenery on a beautiful London morning. I was still warming up as I ran through the pedestrian way giving access to Kensington Gardens, reading for the hundredth time the notice asking people to "Please do not allow your dog to foul the footpath." The crispness of fall was evident; and while the blue sky and the gold, orange, and red leaves brought a smile to my face, I couldn't help wishing I had worn a bit more clothing.

Restraining myself not to pick up the gem-like chestnuts near Kensington Palace, I picked up my pace as I ran through the tunnel of brilliant trees towards Bayswater Road, then past "The Long Water" and into Hyde Park. The old lady who fed the squirrels and pigeons wasn't there. I wondered if these little feathered and furry creatures also missed her and the usual weekday runners.  

Now, at full pace, I approached "Speaker's Corner" and saw only squirrels and pigeons debating at this hour. Passing the Serpentine, the geese were feeding as usual, a few of them honking "Good Morning," or was it "Cheerio?"

Nearing the end of my run, I sprinted down "Flower Walk," with its last outstanding examples of its namesake still in bloom, and then slowed to a walk; I felt sorry that my friends had missed a beautiful morning.

I saw her as I turned the corner at the Palace. She was striding effortlessly, almost prancing, her body enjoying the morning and the exercise. Her blond hair flowed from beneath her baseball cap, and her diminutive size and firm, shapely legs, along with the youthful enthusiasm of her running style, made her appear to be a teenager, certainly too young for an almost forty-year-old hopeful. I had only spied her recently from various disadvantaged and distanced positions, and now the "Scandinavian," as this newest "friend" was known to me, was only thirty yards away. I was tired. I was sweaty. But somehow, I felt a burst of energy and followed her.

Her quick pace gave me second thoughts, but I kept up. Picking up my pace, I moved closer, admiring her athletic but almost irreverent style, lithe body, and adorable butt. I was close enough to pick up the faintest smell of perfume, in sharp contrast to my two-day-old t-shirt and recently acquired sweat. That gave me more pause for thought, but throwing caution to the wind, I called out, "Good morning!" Surprised, she turned her head, and I could see her bright blue eyes looking out from beneath her cap. Her inviting red lips turned up in a warm smile as she echoed my greeting. She was beautiful. Rosy cheeks, pale complexion, and those cheery blue eyes all framed by her blond hair. Her impossibly small blue Nikes appeared to barely touch the ground as she bounced along effortlessly, and her "Save the Whales" t-shirt, along with her accent-less "good morning," made me think that I might have misnamed her. 

Trying not to reveal breathlessness from my earlier running, I asked, "Are you American?"

She answered, "Ya," with a laugh and, seeing my puzzled look, explained that she was a Norwegian-American living in Seattle. 

I was running to her right and tried to surreptitiously check out her left hand for a ring. But she caught me and laughed again, saying, "Divorced."

I felt like an idiot, and if I hadn't already been red from running, I would have looked like a beet. She made an obvious move to look at my left hand, perhaps to put me at ease, and I laughed, "Me, too."

I huffed, "My name is Van."

She held out her hand and said, "Amalie." 

I wanted to run forever, and when she told me that she was in London for six months doing a project for a financial company, I hoped she didn't see me jump for joy.  

We continued the conversation, and even though I was tired, it seemed effortless – both the running and the conversation. We had a lot in common. Amalie was also recently divorced, with two young daughters being looked after by her ex-husband. She loved running to clear her mind, and she, too, shared the loneliness I felt:  unable to meaningfully connect with anyone – and a dislike for beer!

Fortunately – for me – Amalie brought our marathon session to an end. She had a few things she needed to accomplish, but before going our separate ways, she agreed to have dinner that night. I was on a roll, and if I hadn't been so sweaty and probably smelly, I might have hugged her.

We met that evening at Ma Maison in Knightsbridge, one of my favorites. Amalie was stunning. She wore a light blue jumper and skirt that set off her eyes, hair, and, importantly, her legs. Obviously, we were both more interested in each other than our food, and our young server thoroughly enjoyed the show. 

I told her about my naming of the other runners, and that I hadn’t been wrong about her.

She laughed and said, “I created names, too, and I labelled you the Oregonian.”

I asked why and she explained that I seemed to dress for the weather, rather than for appearance. I wasn’t entirely sure if that was a compliment, but we compared the names we had assigned, to the other runners, and we both agreed on the “Californian.”  

We talked and talked about everything. I opened up to her and I was pretty sure she was doing the same.  Our food had gotten cold, and we left most of it. We even left a fair amount of an excellent Bordeaux, and when we exited the restaurant, the young server probably knew, before we did, what would happen next. 

Over the next few months, we ran together, went out together, and gradually moved in together, choosing Amalie's sunnier (and cleaner) garden flat instead of my third-floor walk-up. A short while later, I joined her for a weekend in Seattle and asked her to marry me. When she said yes, we flew to Reno for an instant, no-wait Nevada wedding.

When we arrived at the Reno airport, we found the closest phone booth and looked up Wedding Chapels in the Yellow Pages. There was no shortage of choice, but one stood out: Chapel of the Bells. Free Airport Pickup. 

It didn't take long for the promised pink Cadillac limo to arrive. The uniformed chauffeur drove us to the Registrar's office, and I needed to borrow $5 from Amalie for the license (a fact she has never let me forget), as they didn't take credit cards.  Then it was on to the Chapel of the Bells. If we hadn't been laughing already about the comedic situation, we certainly would have when we arrived at the Chapel. It was a re-purposed gas station!

An older couple welcomed us, and after declining the optional extras such as fake flowers, rings, videotaping of the ceremony, etc., I paid for the basic $25 package using my credit card. 

The Chapel could accommodate quite a few people, but it was only Amalie, myself, and the elderly couple running the place (as witnesses). We stood at what might be called the altar, and someone started the music, "Here Comes the Bride." We were trying to control our laughter, but when the Minister entered the Chapel from behind the curtains, we just lost it. The Minister, now dressed in long purple robes, was none other than the uniformed chauffeur who'd picked us up at the airport! He introduced himself as Reverend Cotton while we struggled to compose ourselves. 

Exhausted from laughter, we had to run to catch our flight to Seattle and connect with our London flight. Never had a 10-hours flight been more enjoyable.