Memories of Being Passed By

When I was much younger than I am today, I used to run around in circles. Actually not in circles, I used to run around on ovals -- quarter-mile ovals with a handful of other guys my age. We would start at the starting line and dash off at the sound of the gun.

Sometimes there were spectators cheering from the sidelines. Sometimes my brother was there in the infield cheering too. Sometimes my parents were there. Sometimes my girlfriend. One time, I actually won. More often, I came in a little behind.

One day, we had a mix-up race. I don't know what the exact occasion was, but it was a friendly meet against the team from a few miles down the road. On that day, the distance runners ran sprints, and the shot putters ran distance, and the sprinters did the field events. I ran the quarter mile.

When they lined us up in our staggered lanes, I was assigned the outside place. On your marks, we settled into the starting blocks. Set, I looked up to see nothing ahead but track. (The others were staggered in their lanes behind me.) Bang, and I pushed myself out of the blocks.

I ran hard, for 50 yards or so. It was early spring, and although the sun was shining and the sky was blue, there was still a sting in the air. I didn't notice the sting. I did notice the slowness of my legs, and before long I heard the clatter of racing spikes stampeding up behind me. The footsteps got nearer and louder. I felt as if I were running in molasses. In an instant the others passed me by. I felt as if I were standing still.

Let's just say that I didn't place.

But taking the long view, I do have those memories, right? Memories of spectators and family and friends. Of cheering. Of sunny days in early spring and the cool, crisp air. And memories of being passed at great speed before the race was halfway done. I have those, right?

If you think I'm being sarcastic, you haven't been listening.

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In honor of Colin, who ran a great race.

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