All the training seemed futile until a peacock fanned its feathers in the middle of the road
by Christina Barkley
Mrs. Evelyn Wainwright was an eccentric, very kind but equally difficult widow in her seventies. She was one of my most memorable clients over the years. She lived in a well-kept, single-story rancher in Palos Verdes Estates with a huge, lush backyard. Her husband, Dean Wainwright had been a highly esteemed engineer at the Chevron refinery in El Segundo. He developed Parkinson’s and had recently died, leaving his wife a chunk of money as well as a heap of loneliness. As a personal trainer, I’ve learned that I am sometimes hired as a listener, and companion while geƫng in shape is more of an afterthought.. Mrs. Wainwright and I shared the same physical therapist and that is how we met.
I attempted to learn how to surf while I was dating a surfer from Redondo, and it ultimately led to physical therapy for a fractured wrist. Though the brief dang relationship ended (as did my surfing career) I had the opportunity to meet Dr. Naomi Hirano. My wrist rehabbed beautifully and as Naomi and I got to know each other, I referred clients to her for her gentle but effective physical therapy and she reciprocated. One of those clients was Mrs. Wainwright.
There were many times I was tempted to throw in the towel, and tell Mrs. Wainwright I could no longer make the harrowing drive to Palos Verdes from Hermosa Beach where most of my clientele resided. Between her long-winded stories, rants about politics, complaints about neighbors and refusing to do most exercises, the drive up the hill became tranquil compared to the actual training session. We trained three days a week. I brought dumbbells, TRX and resistance bands to her house. She purposely moved slowly and would refuse to go up in weight. I even once put her purse on a scale to demonstrate she was lifting more weight every time she went shopping. She said it wasn’t the same. Sometimes I would feel guilty as she handed me my cash payment, knowing we hadn’t accomplished much for the hour. I wondered if I was making a difference at all. She was suddenly on her own, so my job was to get her stronger now that she couldn’t depend on her husband. But she needed something to motivate her and something to give her purpose again.
Sometimes the marine layer would cover the beach cites with a blanket of fog that usually burnt off by lunchtime. My sessions with Mrs. Wainwright were always at nine a.m., so drives from my neighborhood were always foggy. But when I made the drive up the mini mountain of Palos Verdes, the sun would slowly start to peak through. As I circled each bend and got higher in elevation, the sun would grow brighter, and the skies would turn bluer until I reached the city limits. The fog from the city below became a faint memory. It reminded me of the old musical called Brigadoon. It is about a magical Scottish town hidden on top of a hill where the sun would always shine, contrasting with the dreary surrounding weather of the Highlands.
This one morning, as I drove up to train Mrs. Wainwright, it was especially foggy and more dense than usual. Cyclists would often ride this road for the incredible ocean views and the challenging grade, so I was careful to keep a look out. There weren’t many cars on the road which made it less stressful, so I could take my time driving below the speed limit. I remember I was on this stretch of road where to my right was a cliff leading down to the ocean. To my left was the opposing traffic lane which hugged a wall of rock. Suddenly as I made one of the sharp turns, I saw something in the road. I screamed as I slammed on my brakes.
It was a peacock.
And it just stood there staring at me. It didn’t even flinch. I honked my horn to move it along. He responded by opening his vivid fan of feathers. His markings were unusual. His body was the standard cobalt blue, and the outer feathers were the typical lime green with black eye-shaped circles all over. However, the middle portion of his tail just behind his head was white and those feathers flared outward like a firework. It was breathtaking…and intimidating.There was no side of the road at this point. I didn’t know much about this majestic bird at the time, but peacocks prefer walking over flying. Most of them could fly only eight to 10 feet high and the rock wall was well above that. Palos Verdes has had a few hundred of these birds wandering around the neighborhoods since the early 1900s. I had seen a couple on two different occasions while hiking, but never on the main road and not any that looked like this one. This bird could only keep walking along the road until it leveled out into the little suburb of streets and houses.
I looked at the time and it was a quarter to nine. I didn’t want to be late for Mrs. Wainwright, so I made the tough decision to drive around the peacock briefly on the opposite side of the road. I said a little prayer for the big, beautiful guy as I passed. I wasn’t quite sure what to do in this situation and hoped he would figure it out on his own. Mrs. Wainwright would enjoy my story today, I thought.
“I almost hit a peacock driving up here. It was just standing in the middle of the road,” I said as I arrived.
“Aw, poor dear. Was it alive?” she asked.
“Yes. It even showed off its feathers. I never saw one like it before. It had white markings in the middle of its tail,” I recounted.
Suddenly Mrs. Wainwright’s concern elevated. “It had what?”
“White feathers in the middle of its tail. It fanned out like a star,” I said.
Mrs. Wainwright grabbed her 10-pound purse and an apple from her fruit basket. “Let’s go,” she commanded. I followed her to her garage where she moved a few boxes and took out a large folded up metal crate. Her strength was suddenly apparent as she put it in the trunk of her Buick SUV. She got into the driver’s seat. I reluctantly got in the passenger side. This better not take more than an hour, I thought to myself.
We headed back down the hill and the sun slowly began to fade. I nervously watched Mrs. Wainwright eating the apple she took with her as she drove her Buick with one hand.
Sure enough, the peacock was still trekking up the right side of the road as if he were one of the cyclists.
“My Lord! I think it’s him!” she exclaimed.
“Who?” I asked.
We drove slightly past him and down the hill a few yards to where it was more of a straight away for her to put on her hazards and leave the car parked. She took her half-eaten apple and handed it to me. “Take this,” she said. I obliged with slight disgust. She carried the large crate, and I followed behind her up a steep climb to where the peacock stood. She walked the incline with ease.
We were maybe 10 feet away from the peacock. Mrs. Wainwright opened the crate and took the apple core from me and sprinkled the seeds inside. She threw the rest of the core in as well.
“Come here Sugar,” she cooed at him.
Right, like this is going to work, I thought to myself.
But suddenly, at the sound of her voice, the peacock looked straight at Mrs. Wainwright and slowly started walking toward her and the crate.
“C’mon baby, that’s my Sugar. Dean rescued you years ago and then you wandered out of the backyard. Remember me?” she asked.
Sugar got closer and closer until one leg was inside the crate. He bent his graceful neck and devoured one of the seeds. Then the other foot wandered in, until finally his tail cleared the threshold. Bam! Mrs. Wainwright closed the trap door. She picked up the cage with the approximately big bird inside and gently placed him in her trunk as I proudly watched. “He always did like apples,” she said. She then looked at me, winked and flexed her bicep. ER
