He’s even with Black Speedo Guy most of the lap, but in the final yards McCormick’s breathing falters. He takes a ragged gulp, a short stroke, hits the wall late.
The victor hoists himself out of the water, making a show of stripping off cap and goggles and pounding his ears.
The principle of this guy is his gut. It’s a big-pumpkin gut, a pregnant-lady gut, hanging way over his distressed Lycra waistline.
“Thanks for the push,” Black Speedo says, winking.
McCormick, who feels kinship with the manatee at even two pounds over his wedding day weight, says, “my pleasure.”
