tug town

Must have been 1996 the last time I saw him move like that. He bet my brother that a man on foot – even an old one – could out run any six cylinder set beside him in a few-second dash.

Pa was 60 and recovering from back surgery and Davy was 16 and in a 92 Pontiac. They had their race. Pa won just like Davy knew he wouldn’t. And when he did he laughed and told the whole town and felt young again.

Last summer I watched him sprint across the road. He pumped his arms and grinned and made it look easy.

“When I was a boy, I was a runner. I used to come off that mountain…I’d make seven miles before I’d even lose m’wind. Five more ‘fore I had to stop. And that’s just cause I got to town.” Here he pauses. Looks contemplative. “Boy’s, you reckon how far I could’a run if I hadn’t had town to stop me?”

I wonder this sometimes. Where he would have went. How far he may have gone. If it weren’t for the little town that stopped him.