Author Archives: Pete Riddell

Postcards

Everyday Special …

Lydia and I met as freshman English majors at Waynesburg College. Had a bunch of classes together. Worked on the newspaper. Lydia was editor our senior year. I wrote a silly column trying too hard to be Dave Barry. Lydia was in charge of things. 

Anyone who knows Lydia will not be surprised by this. 

She expected a lot of herself, and of the world around her. I remember once she got so fired up upon learning that a classmate had been cheating in one of our classes.

“Pete! It’s just not fair! He’s not doing any of the work and he’s going to get the same grade as us!”

As an aside … she was being generous in including me in the ‘us’ part of the grade-getting.

“Doesn’t that make you mad?!?” 

I remember answering her that what other people did didn’t bother me much. That maybe what mattered more was what we were learning … what we were getting out of the class … what we might take with us. I remember telling her that I wasn’t sure that the grade even mattered all that much. 

Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in litigating that case with Lydia … who went on to be our class’s valedictorian, and graduate from law school after that. 

I think our friendship was forever forged in Dr. McEwen’s Research Writing class. To say that Dr. McCewen was exacting would be an understatement. The entire semester was dedicated to writing a research paper. We would meet to work on it at Lydia’s sister’s apartment in downtown Waynesburg (quieter than the dorms).

Lydia was the organized one. She kept us on task. Made sure we hit our deadlines and turned everything in on time, if not early.

None of the above were among my superpowers.

In a spasm of poor decision making, Lydia let me choose the topic for our research paper. I remember wanting to look at different periods of history to see what given societies found funny, as reflected in their drama and literature. Like, what was funny in Shakespeare’s time? And to what degree did comedy stay the same or evolve across centuries and societies? 

It looked good on paper. 

It didn’t look good in our paper. 

We’d be on like, draft 7, and Dr. McEewen would return it just bleeding red ink from his infamous pen. Lydia would get so stressed out. As the semester progressed, she doubled-down on editing our drafts before we had to re-submit. She had this big blue thesaurus. She would pull it out and make suggestions when we were stuck on something. This is one of the few things we clashed on. I’ve always hated thesauruses. Have always considered them a sign of weakness. Whenever she would bust out the thesaurus, I’d rebel. Ignored all of her suggestions. Told her we weren’t trying hard enough and would figure it out.

Aside from that, if I brought anything to our partnership, I think I helped keep things light … helped us from taking ourselves too seriously. 

I think Lyd found me amusing … much the way one is amused watching a dog chasing its tail.

I could always make her laugh.

The LYDIA laugh. 

It was glorious. More of a cackle, technically speaking. 

And one, that for as long as I knew her, she never cut short for room or circumstance. 

__

Our interactions during Dr. McEwen’s class would remain the hallmarks of our friendship after college. 

Lydia remained the organized one, always taking the initiative in our remaining in touch. She’d send cards and thoughtful letters recounting her travels abroad and life updates. Which I would return weeks, sometimes months, later. She was meticulous about sending cards around the holidays. My birthday card from her would invariably arrive a couple days early. 

By contrast, while I knew her birthday was in February, I could never remember the exact day. She’d always give me shit when it arrived days, or sometimes weeks, late. I remember once asking her to remind me when it actually fell. Her response, “I’m not telling you. You should know.” 

She expected a lot of the world around her. 

It got to the point where, when I’d see February approaching, I’d immediately send her a note, making a point of calling out how proactive I was being. 

She didn’t buy it. 

__ 

But there is one date that I know I will never, ever forget — Friday, June 7, 2024. 

We had made plans earlier in the week to talk. She’d warned me in advance. “Brace yourself, Pete … it’s not good.” 

When I picked up and told her I was driving, she said it was probably good that I was sitting down. 

And for the next couple minutes, she — unflinchingly, unblinkingly, remarkably —  let me know that it took her doctors three biopsies before they figured out what it was. That it was not the recurrence of breast cancer she and they first believed it to be. That it was worse. A rare form of cancer. Only 200 cases. And that it had spread all through her body. That she likely had a month to live. With treatment, maybe three months. Maybe a little longer. 

She told me that I was the last person she planned to have this conversation with. That it was just so impossibly hard. That she was done recounting it all. 

I mean, what do you say to that? 

You start with what’s true. 

I told her that I received both the act and substance of what she shared with me … as an honor … as a gift … as a blessing. 

That she has always had such a light about her … and that light was as bright in this moment as it had ever been. 

And that I would always do my very best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large. 

And you both cry a little bit, but not much. She’d done the crying. 

So you do what you’ve always done for as long as you’ve known each other. 

You just catch up. 

You talk about Waynesburg. Old classmates. Dr. McEwen. Other professors. 

In our reminiscing, I mentioned to her that I have few regrets, but I do regret that I was never able to go back and have an adult conversation with Dr. Bower, who was another larger-than-life character in our college experience. To talk about all the seeds he planted … his knowing we weren’t equipped in the moment for them but planting them anyway. I wished I could’ve told him what some of those seeds had come to mean for me.

When Dr. Bower passed away, Lyd and I went in on a memorial donation to the library in his honor.

In response to my ruminating, Lydia said the most remarkable thing.

She said, “I’d wish for the exact opposite.

“I’d just like to go back and have one day at college. Not even a special day. I’d just like to walk campus. Sit in on a boring class. Hang out in the dorm talking about nothing. 

“Go to Scott’s Delight … get an Everyday Special.” 

Scott’s was an unassuming greasy spoon down the road from campus. A counter with stools directly in front of you as you entered, and a few booths on either side of the entrance. The Everyday Special = legendary. You could get a burger, fries and a coke for like $1.85. Cup of nacho cheese to dip your curly fries would set you back another 45 cents. That’s how the pros did it, anyway. 

It wasn’t great. But it was perfect. 

An Everyday Special. 

It was just the most golden thing for Lydia to say.

I was still letting it sink in when she continued. 

“Oh, there’s something else I wanted to tell you.” 

She said that she was hoping to surprise me, but she wasn’t sure she would get the chance, so she wanted to tell me just in case.  

She asked me if I remembered seeing a few months ago that the college (I know it’s a fancy University now, but it will never be anything other than Waynesburg College to me) was doing a fundraiser for an Alumni Walk.

Um, I hadn’t seen it … to which she was not surprised. 

She let me know that she made a donation … to which I was not surprised. 

Until she added … 

“I got us each of us a brick, Pete.” 

Oh my gosh, I said aloud, pulling one hand off the steering wheel and placing it on my heart. 

I mean, what do you say to that? 

She said it for us. 

“So we’ll always be together on campus.” 

I was speechless. 

I don’t remember what we chatted about after that. 

I only remember one thing, actually. 

At some point … I made her laugh. 

Don’t remember what I said … most assuredly something dumb, like always. 

But there it was.

The Lydia laugh. 

Her singular cackle. 

The one she never cut short — even in this impossible moment — for room or circumstance. 

Undiminished. Resplendent.

__

Days later I found myself downstairs at my desk … still reflecting on our remarkable conversation … when it hit me.

I remembered something I hadn’t had occasion to think about for 35 years. 

The kind of detail that Lydia was notorious for remembering … the kind I never could recall. 

I remembered the title of our research paper. 

And it about knocked me out of my chair. 

In the shadow of our remarkable conversation, it was infused with a poignancy that I cannot adequately put into words. 

The title of our paper was inspired by a story we’d come across in our research. The story is believed to be apocryphal, its exact source lost to history. 

But the gist of it is this. 

A famous actor was lying on their deathbed, being attended by family and friends come to pay their last respects. A former colleague was at the bedside, looking at the frail actor in their failing health. Piteously, the colleague said, “This must be so difficult for you.” 

To which the actor opened their eyes and said in reply …

“Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.” 

The memory hit me at the very moment I was thinking of the sound of Lydia’s laughter … from the last conversation we would ever have. 

Lydia took the thesis from our paper and pretty much made it the thesis for a full life, well-lived. One she never stopped researching.

In the end she was litigating my case back to me. That when all was said and done … the grade didn’t matter after all.

__

I had the great honor to attend Lydia’s celebration of life a couple weeks later. Got to see her sister Karen for the first time in decades. She kindly invited me to stop by the luncheon they were hosting after the service, said that Lydia had something for me.  When I did, Karen handed me a bag … said that Lydia had written me a note, but that she had so wanted to revise it (always the editor). Had asked Karen if maybe she could type a revision for her, but Karen told her that she was certain it would mean more in her own handwriting. 

Of course she was right.

I waited until I’d driven the four hours back home from Mechanicsburg before I looked in the bag and fished out the letter. 

__

This is me keeping my promise to my friend. To do my best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large.

While I recalled above how our friendship was forged in Dr. McEwen’s research writing class, Lydia had a finer point to put on the forging. 

“For me, our lifelong friendship was sealed on September 17, 1990. While battling my first round  with cancer, I called to wish you a happy birthday. The summer of 1990 was beyond challenging for me — battling Hodgkin’s Disease while attempting to carry on as though all was well. During our call, you said, ‘I miss you, Lyd.’ Nearly 34 years later, your simple sentiment brings tears to my eyes. You were so sincere, and it was just what I needed to hear. Thank you, my friend.” 

Of course Lydia would remember the exact date.

Of course she would think to call me on my birthday while she was battling her first round with cancer. 

Of course she would remember what I said.

If you only knew that about Lydia Hack, you would know enough. 

But there was more in her note. Her gift.

“I’m not sure if you recognize this. Do you recall the role it played during our Senior Thesis? This tattered reference has traveled with me throughout my career (both legal and nanny). When I was cleaning out my office, I thought you should have it.” 

I placed her letter inside the cover. To make sure I would have an excuse to crack it open every now and again.

__ 

In a spasm of poor decision making, I let my son talk me into signing us up for the Waynesburg Homecoming 5K, which was held early yesterday morning on campus. 

I’d never participated in the race before. The course looped through campus and spilled a little beyond. Past Martin Hall … our freshman dorm. Up the hill past the bottom of Buhl Hall … where all our English classes were held. Made a left at the corner where Scott’s used to be before it was torn down way too soon so many years ago. 

Aside from a few alumni starting to mill about, it was just a regular day on campus. 

I took note of that.

With one notable exception.

When we’d arrived early before the race I saw a sign listing the schedule of events for Homecoming weekend. 

Where I learned that they were dedicating the Alumni Walk at 9:45 a.m. … not far from where the race finished up.

Of course they were.

While Peter waited in the gym after the race for the awards to see how he did in his age group (he won), I walked over to the space between Miller and Hanna halls just as the ceremony was beginning. 

Found us.

I miss you, Lyd. 

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Postcards

My Life In Politics

Sorting through the dozens of bins that my Mom lovingly slash compulsively stuffed with just about every artifact from my childhood — Andy Warhol style — I was recently reminded of my one and only foray (so far) into running for public office. 

My campaign for Safety Captain in the fourth grade.

From the forensic evidence, it looks like I had my sights set on the presidency, but was forced to pivot at the 11th hour. Not sure if I lost in the primary, or received insider info that I didn’t have the votes, but it seems forces conspired to turn my attention to a high-ranking cabinet position instead. 

Also from the forensic evidence, apparently “safety” was not on Miss Barkett’s spelling list that week. 

Not sure what motivated me to land on Safety Captain as my Plan B, but I am retrospectively impressed by my 4th grade resiliency. This may have been my first exposure to the adage, “When one door closes on one’s quest for world domination, another one opens up.”

Apparently I ran a successful grassroots campaign.

Looks like I took great care in drafting my platform.

Like Lincoln tweaking his famous address on the train ride to Gettysburg, the last couple lines added in pencil suggest a deliberate approach. I imagine myself scribbling between classes, or ruminating after getting eliminated in dodgeball.

Didn’t waste a word, though.

The 54-year-old typing this only wishes his aim was so true.

I must’ve worn the object on the right as a button, as it looks like there are a couple pin holes up top. Didn’t skimp on the professional head shot.

Ahem.  

I think (?) I may have won. Hatfield Elementary alum please fact check me on this. 

For all I know I may have run unopposed, but I’d like to believe my sincerity counted for something.

From what I recall I served a fairly uneventful term. 

To say it was a simpler time would be an understatement.  

And by that, I don’t mean pre-puberty, though that proly also helped make the execution of my responsibilities a little easier.  

I’d like to believe I kept my campaign promises. 

To work hard. To not fool around.

I hope I tried my best.

I hope they liked me. 

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Postcards

Treasure Hunting ….

Initiating the excavation of our attic a couple weekends ago (there be dragons), I was forced to reckon once again with all the plastic storage tubs in which Mom lovingly slash compulsively packed away just about every artifact from my childhood. The dozen or so tubs which I’ve been methodically sifting and editing ever since we emptied the old house a few years ago. 

Recently I cracked open one tub particular that made me giggle out loud — a container of books from my elementary school years. The vast majority of which were procured during all those epic (epic, I say) Scholastic Book Fairs of yore. I can still conjure the feeling of exhilaration of slow-browsing the tables on Book Fair days and having the agency to choose my own adventures. 

It was such a genuine feeling of capitol “T” Treasure hunting. 

The archeological evidence suggests that, through grades 1-6 I trafficked exclusively in four genres: sports, monsters, dinosaurs, and these beauties. 

Hello old friends. 

My younger self memorized each and every one of these. Front to back, cover to cover. 

What a gift it was (is?) to be reminded. 

I don’t think my younger self loved anything more than making people laugh, with the possible exception of the Six Million Dollar Man (the two-part Bigfoot episode? SWOON.)

These books were my training wheels before I graduated to committing my brother’s Steve Martin albums to memory. (Cruel Shoes, anyone?). 

Digging deeper into the tub, I was reminded that those books were also responsible for me landing my first and only stand-up gig — in the 6th grade.

I remember Mrs. Shaffer summoning me to her room over lunch one day. Though I didn’t have Mrs. Shaffer for class, I was among the quivering majority that was profoundly afraid of her. She had a booming, eviscerating yell that echoed in the hallways of Hatfield Elementary, easily traveling across the hall to strike second-hand fear into those of us in Mr. Gibel’s class. 

Duly summoned, I remember knocking on her classroom door, and she motioning me to stand next to her desk.

Gulp. 

First thing outta her mouth … “People say you’re funny.”

I mean, what does a sixth-grader do with that?

Impatient with my stunned silence, she phrased it in the form of a question: “Are you funny?”

Mrs. Shaffer didn’t play.

I remember managing a sheepish, “Depends on who you ask, I suppose.”

Heck … all I knew was that I loved aiming at the target … had never paused to consider how good I was at hitting it. 

I loved bringing fresh caches of knock-knocks to the dinner table, loved trading jokes with Dad while riding around in his Sherwin Williams van (his humor veered heavily towards cornball), loved practicing Steve Martin bits when no one else was around. 

I’m not sure there was any greater music to my young ears than laughter produced from thin air (aside from maybe the theme from the Six Million Dollar Man). 

Mrs. Shaffer went on to explain that she was planning a country and western theme for her big annual spring musical. For context, Mrs. Shaffer wasn’t the Busby Berkley of Hatfield Elementary. Busby Berkley was the Mrs. Shaffer of musicals. She then revealed the reason for my summoning:  she was looking for someone to tell jokes — ‘Hee-Haw’-style — in between the numbers. (It was the 70’s y’all.) 

I’m pretty sure she didn’t really ask me so much as assigning it like homework — one didn’t say no to Mrs. Shaffer. All I know is that, upon the asking I was all-in. 

First order of business was to pick a partner. I went with my heart and picked Dan — my first best friend — as my straight man. It would be our first appearance on stage since we performed an avant garde rendition of “Rhinestone Cowboy” before our kindergarten class, during which Dan strummed the guitar he didn’t know how to play, which helped distract the class from our forgetting most of the words. I am still in proud possession of the vivid memory of us walking home from Areford that afternoon on a cloud. I remember turning to Dan — his six-string still loaded on his back — and saying, “We’re gonna make it BIG.” 

Alas … if such was ever to be our elementary school destiny, it would be in comedy, rather than song. 

Next came the work of crafting our set list. This is what I’d trained for. I meticulously culled troves — troves, I say — of comedic gold from my vast library of joke books, sourcing supplemental material from teachers, family and friends. 

A sample forever etched in memory:

Pete: You ever been to a hula dance?

Dan: What’s a hula dance? 

Pete: It’s when they put one crop of hay in the front field, and one crop of hay in the back field. And when the music starts … they rotate the crops. 

Ahem. 

We prepped a program’s worth of such material (which Mom, of course, saved) …

… which we unleashed on an unsuspecting audience while standing between corn stalks in front of the stage where classmates offered their pre-pubescent renditions of Hank Williams’ “Hey Good Lookin’’ and Johnny Cash’s “North to Alaska.”  As an aside, my favorite number was the Anne Murray banger, “Could I Have this Dance?” … where I won the lottery by being paired up with Julia Pudowkin (DOUBLE SWOON), who lost her side of the lottery by having to hold my sweaty hand for three minutes and 17 seconds .

While I do recall having to leave some of our best material on the cutting room floor (f*cking 6th grade censors), I remember some of our stuff killed. Remember the indescribable feeling of making an entire room full of adults laugh. Can still conjure the sound of it echoing in our booming cafeteria with the basketball hoops wheeled to the corners. To this day I can hear it as clearly as Miss Shaffer’s booming voice across the hall. 

And even when the jokes fell flat, I remember instinctively dead-panning or double-taking to coax laughs from the ashes. Thanks to Steve Martin for teaching me a thing or two about timing. 

While my vague recollection of our performance brings to mind the old Dennis Miller line, “I haven’t seen choreography that stiff since the Lee Harvey Oswald prison transfer,” I don’t think we were all that bad for a couple of 11-year-old Rhinestone Cowboys. 

__

A question that often gets asked — I’ve often asked it of others — is, “If you could go back, what advice would you give your younger self?” 

While a worthy question, it’s based on the assumption that our older selves have the market cornered when it comes to wisdom. 

But there’s another question that maybe doesn’t get asked as often as it should. 

“What advice would your younger self give present day you?”

Having spent the better part of the last couple weeks in conversation with my younger self, I have a pretty good idea what elementary school Petey would tell grown-up Pete.

Which I actually thought about a couple weeks ago … when everybody was happy around the table, pushing nine o-clock on a Thursday night, after Karry blew out the chubby #1 birthday candle Peter had improvisationally fished from the drawer behind him and balanced on the heavenly angel food cake that she’d brought back from work a couple pieces light  … after she paused for a couple good seconds to ensure she got her wish just right, making me smile that she took the time … after Peter revealed how he’d picked the eau de parfum he’d gotten her — the way he said PAR-fooooom — from the locked case at Marshalls, scent unseen because “the Internet said it smelled good ….” 

When in that moment …  I made everyone laugh … the spark catching the kindling perfectly … oxygenating everyone’s genuine cackles … their hands-off-the-wheel-let-go laughs … their heads-back-I’m-gonna-pee-myself laughs … 

… which left me savoring the sounds like white icing from my fingers  … as Karry wiped tears before turning to her next gift as I received hers  … in the reminder that there is no greater feeling on earth than being responsible for coaxing her glorious and singular Only Karry laugh from thin air. 

That feeling. 

And in the ashes of that moment, I caught a glimpse of my younger self … walking home from Areford on his kindergarten cloud. 

Finally caught up to him, I should say. 

Tapped him on the shoulder and let him know that I’d been listening. Told him I hope he didn’t mind my eavesdropping.

I just wanted to let him know that he was right.

We made it big.  

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Fathers and Sons, saturdays, The Girls

… after WOW after ….

Visited Longwood Gardens (just south of Philly) with Karry and Emma last Saturday. It’s in the category of places I would never choose to visit of my own volition, so am grateful to be carried along in the current of their enthusiasms. It may be the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. I know this to be true based on the number of times I said WOW as an involuntary response. Been thinking since about how the WOWs were exactly the same size whether I was stepping back to look up at a sinewy redwood gathering to its greatness, leaning in to inhale a climbing rose’s secrets, or riveted in place listening to a catbird singing Saturday morning opera.

The place is sprawling, and there was a moment where Karry and Em headed to the conservatory (and its greenhouse of a thousand WOWs), while I went to track down a waterfall we’d seen only at a distance. Traced a canopied path (WOW) to a small landing a few feet from the middle of the waterfall, where I found an empty rocking chair.

So I sat and listened for a hundred years, by which I mean almost long enough. 

Twenty-four hours later I’d exchanged the rocking chair for my backseat nook in Karry’s Jeep, where I was comfortably crammed for the long pilgrimage home so Em could finally begin savoring her summer.  We’d either grossly over-estimated the Jeep’s storage capacity, or grossly under-estimated our daughter’s belongings. Or both. On our way outta town, they paused so I could enjoy a Father’s Day bagel and lox for the ride. I tuned into a radio program just as the interviewees were referencing Harry James, who was my Dad’s inspiration on trumpet growing up. The Universe’s serendipity game is indeed strong. 

I was as comfy and content as a rocking chair by a waterfall. 

Just wanted to bookmark a Father’s Day weekend that pretty much perfectly summed up the gig. 

Carried on the current of their enthusiasms to places beyond my capacity to even imagine. Involuntary WOWs everywhere, if you only remember to look up, lean in, and listen. Grateful for the small wedge still reserved for me in the back seat of their adventures. 

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Fathers and Sons

The Boys of Spring

It’s pushing past noon when I hear my son, upstairs and recently awake, deftly float a question to his mother. 

“If I went to Shorty’s, would you want me to bring you one back?” 

It was an exquisite ask. The phrasing, brilliant. 

He didn’t ask if she wanted to go to lunch. He didn’t say that he was even going. And he didn’t ask “Do you want anything from Shorty’s?”

He served the proposition on a platter, and in so doing, made it irresistible. 

I couldn’t hear Karry’s response, but after he and I made a successful post office drop just before their 1 p.m. close, we found ourselves parallel parking into the one open spot along West Chestnut Street. 

Couldn’t tell you the last time we hit up Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. Actually, I could if I looked at my camera reel. Which is funny when I think about it, because we get exactly the same thing every time. The only thing that changes in my photo documentation is whether the plates are sitting on the counter or — if no open seats there — a table. Makes me think of that time at the newspaper when the fellas in the sports department gave grief to the guy who’d laid out the section’s cover page the day before. To accompany a preview of the Kentucky Derby, the guy included the head shots of all the horses. Which, when you think about it, is ridiculous … since all the horses’ faces pretty much look the same.

But, is it any more ridiculously logical than taking the same photo of hot dogs again and again … and again? 

Point is, it’d been a minute since we jingled Shorty’s door open on a Saturday afternoon, pausing a beat to acknowledge the Grill Guy at the Window before surveying the, um, untouched-by-time, interior for an open seat. 

Can I just say?

Depositing one’s keister atop a stool at Shorty’s lunch counter on a Saturday afternoon is one of life’s great capital “A” Arrival-ings. 

It’s an exhale. 

An unburdening. 

A ‘We Made It’ through the week. 

A We Are Here Now.

There will likely be fist bumps.

Because you know. 

You know that within a minute of sitting down, one of the waitresses will float in front of you and ask if you’re ready to order.

You know exactly what you’re going to say. Sh*t … you knew the moment you made the conscious choice to gift your Saturday. The only decision requiring any deliberation is whether you and your co-pilot are feeling trusting enough to share a large fry with gravy, or go with two smalls to guarantee a 50-50 split. 

You know that, seconds after your order, your waitress will yell loud enough for both the Grill Guy at the Window and the Guy Dunking Fries in the Kitchen to hear. 

You know that the sound of her voice will register to your ears the way you imagine some folks hear opera. 

You know that within 90 seconds, your plated dogs will be placed in front of you. 

For me, two with everything. For the boy, one every, one ketchup and onions. In Shorty’s parlance “everything” does not connote gratuitousness (i.e. the kitchen sink), but, rather, sufficient-ness, lacking of nothing — finely (and I mean, finely) diced onions, a squirt of yellow mustard, and a slather of their no-beans-just-a-bit-of-ground-beef chili. Cue angel chorus. 

You know that your fries with gravy will trail just a minute behind, since you asked for them to be well-done, which is how the pros do it, FWIW.

You know that you will wait for everything to arrive before you and your co-pilot make ceremony of your respective first bites.  

You know that you will allow a couple extra beats for your co-pilot to lightly crop dust the fries with a sprinkle of salt and then as many morocco shakes of the pepper as it takes to ensure thorough coverage across the plate. 

You know that it will be perfect, and not in any kind of throwaway sense. 

During our reverie I found myself conjuring a passage I copied into my journal a year or so ago. I poorly paraphrased it for Peter, but gave him enough to catch my drift, and nod in affirmation.  

The passage is from a tribute that Joe Posnanski wrote back in 2020 upon the passing of the writer Roger Khan.  Appearing in The Athletic, Posnanski wrote of how Khan’s masterwork, “The Boys of Summer,” changed his life. The piece struck me in the moment and has stuck with me since for two reasons. “The Boys of Summer” changed my life, too. It was the first book I remember reading for pleasure in college, the summer after my junior year. A book that taught me that good sportswriters were just good writers who happened to write sports. A book that, looking back, was among a small handful of cosmic forces that spat me into giving sportswriting a shot after graduation. The second reason was the exquisite language Posnanski used when describing Khan’s chronicle of his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers. I looked it up in my journal so I could get it right here.

“The Boys of Summer” might not be the best book I have read, just like “The Princess Bride” might not be the best movie I have seen and spaghetti and meatballs might not be the best meal I have had and Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke” might not be the best song I have heard and chocolate cake might not be the best dessert I’ve eaten. But it is, to me, the most perfect book, just as the rest are the most perfect examples of joy. 

Those might not be the best lines I’ve scribbled into my journal. But, to me, they are the most perfect lines.

And capture exactly how I feel about Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. The only reason Posnanski didn’t mention Shorty’s by name in his enumeration is that he’s obviously never tried to find a parking spot on West Chestnut Street on his lunch hour. 

“This is perfect,” I actually said aloud to Peter when swabbing the last fry across the bottom of our plate to soak as much of the remaining gravy as its absorptive properties would allow. He’d gifted me the last few on the plate after realizing the significant dent he’d put in the pile. 

We shoulda gone two smalls. 

A second later our waitress set down the brown to-go bag containing Karry’s go-to — one with ketchup, mustard and onions. 

Asks us if we need anything else. 

The question always begets a hesitation. Born of both respect and serious consideration.

You know you could totally go for a third, no problem. You’ve done it in the past with zero regrets. There was also that one time you may or may not have gone for a fourth. 

But you remind yourself that the experience is not about gratuitousness but, rather, sufficient-ness.

So Peter settles up with the grill guy at the window, who doubles as the cash-only cashier.

And we backwash out the door, appreciating the gift of the slight downhill walk back to the car and the little bit of sun peeking through the clouds … 

… lacking of nothing. 

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Postcards

Whimming ….

Slept in this morning, which never happens. When it does though, it leaves me in a fog. Operating system has like a half second lag to it. Takes me a bit, but I manage to get the majority of my shit together and out the door. 

On an inspired whim I drive uptown to pop into Table for an espresso. Haven’t been in a while. Always good vibes to be had there. Park across the street and look left for traffic before crossing. Outta the corner of my eye, though, I spy a car parked in front of Joe’s Bakery. It’s pushing 9:30, which as any Saturday sinner will tell you, is pushing it for Joe’s.

On my morning’s second whim, I reroute and take the catty corner of Main and Chestnut, catch the Open sign still hanging on the door. Walk in and look left. See one lonely sugar donut in the case, waiting for me. Joe’s at the register finishing with a coupla customers before he walks over.

“I’ll take your last sugar donut.” 

“There’s a cinnamon twist left, too if you want that,” he says, gesturing to the other end of the tray. 

I’m not so foggy to understand that this is not a multiple choice question. 

Ask him to throw in a sugar twist so the three of us are covered. 

“Just put $3 on the counter,” he says. “You’re my last customer.” 

An honor and a blessing, I say, knowing that under the wire is more than any of us deserve.

As he hands me the bag, he says, “Best donuts in town you got right there.”

… leaving me no choice but to say, “Amen.” 

“When you see good, praise it,” Alex Haley once wrote, though I imagine he wasn’t thinking of donuts at the time. 

Or, you know, maybe he was.

By the time the bells on the door finish jingling behind me, I am convinced that I just might be their corresponding angel. Walking to the corner I see that the new deli that just opened is open. Whereupon I invest the morning’s third whim. 

Order a $2 coffee and take a seat at the long counter by the window overlooking Chestnut that, turns out, was made for writing Saturday morning postcards. 

I write to tell her how I am rolling sevens, as my tall cup slowly burns off the fog, 

After addressing the envelope, “Kindly deliver to ….” which is also the invisible note that I pinned to my shirt when I left the house,  I cross the street and finally make it to Table. 

Sit down with my cortado and crack open Jack Gilbert so he can further melt my morning.

And say thank you to and for the lag in my operating system.  

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Postcards

Liner Notes

Sometimes on weekends when I wake up at the usual time, I’ll briefly fall back asleep for 15 minutes or so. I call it my second-wind sleep. Its defining characteristic is how vividly I dream during the interval. When I awake for the second time, I’m usually coming directly from dreaming. 

Saturday morning I dreamt I was arriving at some sort of pre-graduation gathering. The parking lot was filling up, but I found a place on the loop near the entrance with ample space for me to park the white Econoline van my dream-self was rocking. While it ‘felt’ like it was high school — something about the loop — all recognizable personnel were from my college experience.

Once inside the building and entering the room where (whatever) the gathering (was) was being held, I saw a face my dream self hadn’t seen in a while. 

“Dave!” I called out to a guy I played some music with in college. I remember making some awful noise one summer shedding with Dave and a couple other guys in the TKE house basement.

In the dream Dave was wearing a Star Trek-like uniform, but in the colors of our alma mater. He mentioned he was just finishing a musical project, and was holding the physical master or some recording of the final product in his hands. He interrupted my congratulating him with a question.

“What did it sound like?” he asked me. 

I wasn’t sure what he meant. 

Asked him to explain. 

“Your drums … what did it sound like to you?”

Deep question. 

He said he wanted to mention me in his liner notes of the project he’d just finished. How super cool of him, I remember my dream-self thinking. We hadn’t played together for a couple years.

I ascribed a genuine weight to his question. 

What did it sound like? 

But just as I began to think about how I might answer, the proceedings began.

I never got around to giving him my reply. 

Dave, who played guitar (and bass), was there to accompany a choir-ish group (hence the Star Trek uniforms) providing music for the occasion. Singers harmonized a lyric, “It’s been a long time comin’ …,” and were nailing it, understanding both the assignment and the substance of the material. 

As I listened to the music, my dream self was thinking back to how cool it was that there were people like Dave in this world who care about liner notes. 

It was at that point I woke up from my second wind sleep. 

I had a morning haircut, so quickly showered and got dressed. But before heading out I felt compelled to jot down all the details I could remember of my dream and email them to my good friend Doug. 

I had no idea what motivated me to share my dream with him. 

The dream itself made no sense. It was barely a fragment. And it wasn’t even interesting. Immediately after hitting send I considered following it up and apologizing to Doug for my dream spam. 

But before I could do so Doug replied, telling me that my timing was perfect, and added a few words intimating why. I mentioned I was coming to Waynesburg and could I buy him breakfast? He said he already had breakfast plans with his youngest son and grandson, but would shoot me a note after, if I was still around. 

He did, and I was.  

And so we met at a place on High Street.

Seeing him walk in brought its usual smile and our big hug was medicine to my Saturday morning.  

And as soon as he grabbed the chair across from me, we jumped in to the conversational jazz we’ve been playing ever since we met as freshmen in the band room at Waynesburg College. The kind that just makes time melt. We took chorus after chorus after chorus … catching up and comparing notes: on family, on things we think the other might appreciate (Have you heard … ? Have you read …?), as well as the day-to-day smudge and scuff that more and more keeps us up at night (whither sleep?). Our friendship has always made space for all of it, even the messy stuff. There’s music to be found there, too. A long way from freshmen we are. 

As always we could’ve sat and talked forever, but we knew it was time when it was time. Before going our separate ways, Doug mentioned a new coffee shop around the corner that opened up across from where Scott’s Delight used to be. I asked him if it was worth checking out, and he said it was. 

Though my caffeine tank was full to brimming I stopped by on my way out of town. Ordered something sweet and carried it into the adjacent room with the tables. The interior was warm and coffee-shop cozy, the walls adorned with local art, photography and ephemera. 

Something on the wall immediately caught my eye. On a hunch I walked over to take a closer look. 

It couldn’t be. 

Ha … it was. 

Our record. 

Well, Doug’s record. 

The one he bootstrapped, wrote, and paid for the recording, pressing and distribution (such as it was) of a couple months after we graduated. He poured his full heart and bank account — everything he had at the time — into it. 

I played drums. 

Technically speaking I sang backup, too. In actuality, I monotoned on the chorus. So committedly, in fact, that by the end of the session I had earned myself a nickname: The Drone. 

The A and B sides were rock-a-billy homages to the music Doug loved and loves to this day. Of and from a time when three chords were as sufficient and sustaining to us as ramen. 

After the recording and pressing of the 45s, we got some local airplay, and, according to ‘official’ documentation Doug received from the record company, we briefly trended in one of the Scandinavian countries. I remember seeing a photo copy of some paperwork Doug received that testified that, at our peak, we were charting just north of Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” in Sweden, I think. I got the second biggest kick out of that. The biggest kick was the occasional photocopies Doug sent me of the modest royalty checks he’d get in the mail.   

Those were the liner notes that came to mind as I stared at a relic from more than 30 years ago, framed and hanging on a wall in a tiny coffee shop in the town where we met. 

I imagine Doug’s youngest son was behind its placement. 

I thought to myself how cool it was that there were still people in this world who cared about such things. 

Pondering the morning’s serendipity as I stared at our old 45, it suddenly all made sense to me. 

I knew why I’d shared my morning dream with Doug. 

Because he’d shared his with me three decades ago. 

And I also think that, deep down, I had a hunch that we’d make some music of it somehow. 

I think our morning’s conversational jazz qualified. 

Same chords as always. Different changes these days.  

As I drove the back roads home, I mentally made plans to turn in early that night. 

To give myself room for a second wind sleep, in hopes that I might bump into Dave again. 

And get back to him with my answer for his liner notes. 

“What did it sound like?”

It sounded like what it’s always sounded like. 

Like old friends making time melt.  

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Postcards

Sweetness

Took the hotel elevator downstairs to forage for far-from-home Monday coffee and a bite before heading out for an afternoon workshop with a Jedi High Council of new clients. Been stressing for days about the gathering, which represented our one and only opportunity to make a good first impression with about a dozen higher ups.

Grabbed a plain black coffee (did the trick) and a yogurt from their cooler (not that great), and went back to toss my empties in the garbage, when I spied a small bowl of bananas on the counter behind the person working. Likely owing to my pre-caffeinated state, I’d not seen the bowl when I’d ordered.

“Ooh, may I have a banana, please?” I asked the person who’d waited on me a couple minutes ago, explaining unnecessarily that I’d not seen them when I’d first ordered. She turned, walked over to the bowl and reached to grab one.

Then she pulled her empty hand back. 

On second thought … 

“I’ll let you pick,” she said. 

Idabeen fine with whatever she’d picked, but, um, OK. 

So I walked around the corner of the counter to where the bowl sat. Sized up the options, grabbed the biggest one automatically, figuring that hotel bananas come at a price and all cost the same, so bigger was the best choice. Really didn’t give it a second thought. 

In the couple seconds while I was sizing up the options in the bowl, the person behind the counter said, “Some people prefer smaller ones, some bigger. Where I come from the smaller ones are much sweeter. 

“In Sudan, we let the monkeys have the bigger ones.”

“Really?” I asked, as the corners of my mouth propped themselves into a curious smile. 

“Yes … the smaller ones are sweet … like candy,” she said, as her face registered a memory of the taste. “We rush to pick the small ones before the monkeys can get to them. But we leave the bigger ones, and let the monkeys have those.” 

In my life I have never bothered to consider any distinction of taste in the relative size of a banana.

“I assume they are a different variety than what we have here,” I said. She said she didn’t know for sure as she asked me my room number to apply the charge. I didn’t either, but found myself needing to know, so later looked it up.  Turns out that the dwarf cavendish is the primary banana grown in Sudan (among the 50 varieties that grow there), which is, in fact, smaller than the commercial variety we are used to here. 

She began to list the myriad ways they cook with bananas back home … frying, roasting, baking.  “Oh, and the plantains,” she continued. 

As she allowed herself a few small seconds of reverie, I found myself walking over to the bowl again. 

I put the big one back in exchange for a smaller one. 

“Ah, Mr. William … you were just here,” she said, looking at her screen and seeing my previous order. I could read on her face she was pausing for another second thought before deciding on something. 

“I give you the banana,” she said. 

Of course, she simply meant the smaller one I had already started to peel. 

But, as I’ve thought about it, the true gift was in the form of her language. In the brief span of an otherwise mundane transaction that barely lasted a minute — one of the hundreds each of us would encounter in our unfolding day — she had re-presented the whole idea of something that I had heretofore taken for granted. 

I give you … the banana.

Since she had addressed me by name, I asked hers in return. “Yoo-me” she said, spelling it for me: U-M-I. 

I thanked her for her generosity, by which I meant her spirit. 

As I walked from the counter I knew that I would never look at a banana the same way again. And that when I do, I’ll think of Umi.

And how she made my world bigger by sharing from hers. 

I mean, much, much bigger in ways that I am only beginning to appreciate. 

Like the convicting possibility that my default OS may be born of a scarcity mindset … whose first instinct is to grab for the biggest and the most for me … rather than what might actually be for the best for reasons that may be far beyond my limited understanding. Me and the monkeys are gonna need some time chewin’ on that big banana. 

In the meantime … I will content myself with the wisdom inherent in Umi’s simple act of kindness.

That the scale of far-from-home Mondays is indeed relative. 

And that there is a sweetness to be found in small things. 

Bananas, yes … and in the tiniest of moments, buried deep in the otherwise mundane bowls of our everyday encounters.

(on second thought, draws empty hand back)

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Postcards

Portals and Destination ….

“I’ve got some good friends, now. But I’ve never seen their parents’ back porch.”

Add that to the big pile of lines I wish I’d written.

Curse you, Ben Rector. 

That’s just one of the, like, gajillion heart haymakers packed into his song and video for “Old Friends,” which I’ve been walking with like a fanny pack since a couple kindred spirits serendipitously made me aware of its existence. 

But that line in particular. 

Been using it as a sorting hat of sorts over my morning coffee. Of all the neighborhood saints I grew up with, there’s really only a handful whose back porches that I can conjure, even in hazy outline. Four, by my inexact count. 

Three of ‘em were more portal than destination, gateways to backyard magic, owing to their functional humbleness. 

But, standing on them now and looking out …  

Amy

Just the tiniest back porch … barely enough room for a lawn chair or two —  overlooking a yard as modest as all ours were, fenced in … in their case mainly for the dogs. Always dogs. Ginger was the first one I remember … shaggy in the way that made you long to pet her if she wasn’t always barking at you (ha). As I recall, the back porch invariably bore the muddy smudge of Amy and (little sis) Jodi’s canine du jour. I’m sure we contributed our fair share of mud prints, too. Though the yard was modest in size, its fence automatically qualified it for birthday party kickballing (before they put the pool in, yes?), while also mandating that one of us had to run like hell if a foul escaped along the third base line … as it was all downhill from Seventh Street for a few blocks. I also remember that anything that cleared the fence in back brought the very real possibility of getting yelled at by Mr. Wyda (scary) during the retrieval process. Oh, and I remember that glorious ‘metal detector summer,’ when our Moms would go foraging together. The magical signaling hum as Mrs. Hawkins waved it over her back yard with the seriousness of a mystic at a seance. Oh, and I distinctly remember being in their small kitchen whose screen door looked out on the back yard, as Mrs. Hawkins scooped french fries from the basket of what my eight-year-old self remembers as the first deep fryer in the neighborhood (cue angel chorus), which instantly made her kitchen my favorite restaurant on the planet.

Jerry

Jerry’s small backyard was packed with awesome, hosting a hoop, their magical pull-behind camper (perfect sleepover vessel), and, perhaps best of all, open access to a quiet alley that provided secret, safe, bike passage on both sides. My remembrance of Jerry’s back porch is irresistibly biased by one moment in particular. I believe it occurred early in the evening of a summer camper sleepover … when Mrs. Rehanek emerged on the back porch, which stood off from the kitchen, carrying freshly made ice cream cherry sodas, which proceeded to blow my nine-year-old mind. And which immediately certified Mrs. Rehanek as a bona fide sorceress and, which still ranks as the most magical potion I ever experienced in my childhood, and possibly in my lifetime. Summer as God intended … spooned fizzy from a glass.

Jeff

Jeff’s back porch was a bit bigger than Amy and Jerry’s, but, like theirs, sat right off the kitchen … overlooking a yard shaded by their glorious big tree that unevened the ground with its roots … but which never daunted us from wiffleballing. Ample room for bases … and a fence that gave us home runs to shoot for, though the tree played center-right field better than we could, snagging as many of our big flies as ever cleared the fence. And any line drives to right whose vector was lower than the tree line ran the risk of landing near their old dog Butchie, who pretty much hated everybody, except Jeff (sometimes). Anything Butchie got a hold of = automatic ground rule double.  

Danny 

Danny’s back porch was the one destination among the bunch. 

Awning covered shade and cushioned chairs on top of astroturf … perfect for resting when we needed a break from running amok elsewhere. It’s where we’d take our summer popsicles, and where we’d towel off from his perfectly-sized-for-tiny-human-Marco Polo-above-ground-pool that barely squeezed alongside his house …  before going inside to catch Lost In Space on Channel 10, that one summer’s destination TV. 

Danny’s back porch is also where we all gathered and ate pizza the night we graduated high school. Open to whoever wanted to stop by. I remember our friends from outside the neighborhood coming and going while the rest of us just hung out.  I also seem to recall some of our parents walking down to join for a bit. By then we weren’t the same friends we were growing up (middle school and high school can do that to a person) but I think we kinda had a sense that, despite everything, we’d always know each other as neighbors.

I don’t know how the rest remember it, but I remember graduation pizza on Danny’s porch as the most perfect coda on our growing up together.

__

Sitting here in desperate need of re-filling my morning, middle-age cup, it’s good to know that I can still find my way back to our parents’ back porches. And conjure fresh the taste of Mrs. Hawkins’ french fries, Mrs. Rehanek’s ice cream cherry sodas (forever The Bomb), and all those summer popsicles from Mrs. Hoff’s downstairs freezer chest (tie between lime and banana as my forever favorites). Oh, and an honorable mention to Mrs. Hughes’ birthday party homemade hamburger pizza. Not gonna lie, a bit of an acquired taste (ha).

“I’ve got some good friends, now. But I’ve never seen their parents back porch.”

And in case you’re wondering … from memory I can still dial their house phones. 

You can’t make old friends. 

Damn you, Ben Rector. 

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Fathers and Sons, Outside, The Girls

Better Late Than Never ….

Really, we shoulda gotten there a lot earlier.

“What time should we leave?” Emma, the organized one, asked me the night before, whereupon I did the math in my head, which family history has proven time and time again really means, “a slight majority of the math.” Looked up the drive on Google, which placed it around 30 minutes. Should be good if we leave by 10, I guesstimated. “I’ll set my alarm for 9:50,” my son informed me, which prompted me to suggest, unsuccessfully, we leave by 9:45.  Which means we left at 10:10, which got us there at 10:45, which left us just enough time to park, pick up our bibs, and evacuate any remaining bodily fluids before taking our place at the back of the pack of already stretched and warmed-up humans massed at the starting line.

Our tight window robbed me of sharing the signature element of my pre-plannning. For motivation I was going to play Kurt Russell’s Herb Brooks’ “Miracle” speech before we got out of the car. Remind them that they were, you know, born to be hockey players. Alas.

To be fair … it’d been four years since the last time I’d participated in an organized race, so was a bit out of practice. And to be honest, I never really was what one would call ‘in practice.’  In the handful of 5 and 10Ks I’d begrudgingly participated in the couple years before the pandemic, I was never in charge of any of the planning. All of that fell to my ‘running buddy,’ Jason, whose default is to subjugate every detail to his monarchical rule. He’d prompt our registration, then spec our departure time and the ensuing directions. My race day responsibilities were limited to a light stretch followed by (a.) watching the back of Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, and then (b.) concentrating all of my energies on not puking down the front of me while maintaining operating control of my bowels until the whole unpleasantness was over.

It was the memory of one such episode that prompted me this New Year’s Eve to casually mention to Peter that I’d seen that there was a “Resolution 5K” run in Oakdale on New Year’s Day. Five New Year’s Eve’s ago, as I was a couple Moscow Mules into my evening, Jason texted me a link to that year’s race, accompanied by, “You in?” I remember convincing myself that my third Moscow Mule was spiritually akin to the training montage in Rocky IV where Stallone is carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. From what I recall, my next day’s performance was, in fact, a fair simulacrum of an overmatched, middle-aged man carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. 

I hadn’t really asked Peter if he was interested in this year’s version, so was surprised when he responded to my dissemination of the fact with, “I’ll do it.” Nor was I expecting Emma’s response after I informed her that I’d signed Peter and me up. “Sign me up, too.” Neither had ever done a 5K before.

Seconds after doing so, apparently in the throes of what science calls a “runner’s high,” I wandered into the dining room and informed Karry of our New Year’s Day plans and asked if she wanted to ride with us and, you know, cheer us along. Which prompted the following exchange. 

She: (silence) 

Me: Maybe you could make a sign or something. 

She: (emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage)

So it was ‘just’ the three of us standing in the light snow in 30-degree weather seconds before the start of the race, whereupon Peter asked if we’d be running together or just doing our own thing. 

“Do your own thing,” I advised, since I wasn’t quite sure what any of our things were. 

Since we were waaaaaayyyyyy in the back of the pack, I spent the first couple minutes maneuvering around participants either walking or easing into things (whose better judgement qualified every single one of them to be my Life Coach). Managed to carve out some space and was settling into a rhythm when a guy runs up along side me and asks me what my pace is. I hadn’t thought to consider that data point prior to his asking. I looked at my phone and saw I was matriculating at a 7:43 clip. Had I been sipping a Moscow Mule at that moment I would’ve reacted with my first spit take of the New Year. From what I could remember that was about a minute faster than my pre-pandemic pace. The voice in my head immediately channeled my Inner Karry — “[emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage].”

 “That’s my pace, too!” he said enthusiastically. “My name’s Jason,” he said cheerfully. (Apparently I’m a magnet for Racin’ Jasons.) “Do you have a target today?” he asked. Since we’d just met I couldn’t give him my honest answer — “Not pooping my pants” —  instead opting for a simple “No.”  Undaunted, he asked me if I intended to maintain my pace the rest of the way.

I took a deep breath and replied: “Look, before we get too far into this relationship, I’m not who you think I am. I’m living a lie right now. If I keep up this charade one of us is going to end up on the side of the trail bleating like a heifer giving birth to triplets before we hit the turnaround. You look like a nice enough fellow, but this … this is never going to work. The best thing for you to do right now is to leave me. Forget we ever met. Go, just go. Go live a life. And whatever you do … promise me you will never, ever look back.”

All of which came out of my mouth as, “Nope,” as I knew I would need all my breaths for the foreseeable future. 

As I found an odd reassurance in watching New Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, I began to recall my previous race experiences. Turns out that running is just like riding a bike, except way harder … and with lots more awful running involved. I was reminded that the first mile is always further than it seems. “Surely I’ve run a mile by now,” I think to myself about a quarter of a mile in. 

And the second mile is always The Worst. I refer to it as the “Seriously, what were you thinking?” mile. It’s just mean. Apparently it had a difficult upbringing. Probably overbearing parents. Most likely a bed wetter. Even when I’m running longer distances, the second mile just mercilessly taunts me.

Nevertheless, I managed to make it to the turnaround, and shortly thereafter, my phone let me know I’d made it two miles … upon which I convinced myself that this would all be over soon. Found someone just slightly ahead of me that was ambling at a reasonable pace and settled in behind them.

Stole a glance at my phone when I was about 23 minutes in. Figured I only had about three-ish minutes left to go. At which point my endorphins began to ask me my thoughts on a potential finishing kick. 

“Good one,” I responded before realizing that my endorphins, much like my wife, are not kidders. 

I hadn’t reached three miles yet, so was in no great hurry to make any rash decisions.

Then all of a sudden this very tall, bearded dude zooms past me. In full gallop. Like, really going for it, Kentucky-Derby-style. Sizing him up I figured he was likely in my age group. I was genuinely impressed. “Wow,” I thought. Clearly he had a plan that involved more than just maintaining a good grip on his bowels. “Good luck with … all that,” I mentally saluted as he sped past.

A couple minutes later, my phone tells me I’m at three miles. And when I look up, I see that I’m actually gaining on Tall Bearded Dude, who was now visibly scuffling down the home stretch. Looked like his bowels wanted a word with him. Kicked a little too early, evidently.

Hubris. 

Which my endorphins and I discovered is apparently contagious in men of my age group. 

“We’re taking this f*cker down!” my endorphins exclaimed. 

“Language!” I scolded in reply, before putting my metaphorical pedal to the metal, which reacted with all the responsiveness of my parents’ 1980 Mercury Monarch that I learned to drive on.  

“OK, give us a minute here,” my body replied … before marshaling all my remaining faculties into a barely perceptible acceleration, which catapulted me past Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy in a turn of events that surprised me almost but not quite as much Brigette Nielsen when Rocky drew blood from Ivan Drago.

As the finish line came into view up ahead, I somehow managed to keep TBPP Guy in my wake while retaining a majority of the bodily ingredients I’d started with, including a teensy measure of pride.

After catching my breath I sought out Peter and Emma and found them upright and in tact as well. We made our way to the community center for some water, and to steal a glance at the posted results just for funsies. Both Peter and I finished sixth in our respective age groups (even more impressive for him, as he was fighting a bit of a chest cold), while Emma finished third in her female age group, earning a tiny medal. Not bad for a coupla first timers. 

Driving home in a car redolent with the aroma of our respective Ks, I was reminded of what I used to appreciate about participating in races. They’re invariably mini exercises in aliveness. Of the conscious choice to sign up. Of the sacred act of pulling a shirt over your head and lacing your shoes. Of stretching to give your body its best chance. Of seeking out your place amongst kindred spirits at different places along their respective journeys. Of watching the backs of jerseys getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Of humbling second miles where your inner voice gains the upper hand. Of appreciating that there will always be folks faster than you, and folks content with taking their own good time, and many lessons to be learned from both. And that you are probably both of those things to those around you, too. Opportunities to push yourself a little harder than you otherwise might … and seeing what happens. Heck, if it were up to me I’d give a tiny medal to Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy — for not waiting until he was ready to give it all he had. Better late than never, you know? 

Summing the math on the above — or at least the slight majority of the math — aliveness is the blessing of the Racin’ Jasons and Peters and Emmas in my life … people who both ask and answer questions that I don’t always have the courage to ask myself, and who push me to see how fast and far I might be able to go. 

And who make me want to be a little bit better next time.

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