A short story.

am almost 40 years old, so running victories are a thing of the past for me. The

best I could hope for would be to maybe take an age-group award, and that

would only be in the races where all the local fast guys decided to stay in bed. So at this point in my running life, I’ll take them any way I can get them—even if they aren’t on a certified course and even if there are no medals, no trophies, and no recognition.

Every year we take a one-week vacation to Ocean City, New Jersey, during the Fourth of July week. This is a huge vacation in that all of my in-laws also take the same vacation. We rent at least two (and sometimes three) separate condominiums and basically party together all week. It’s lots of kids, lots of beach time, and lots of beer drinking once the kiddies are asleep. All in all, it’s a great time.

This past summer, the powers that be (my wife and her siblings) decided to extend the vacation to two full weeks instead of the usual one. I agreed, but silently I had a problem. I would be in the midst of training for the Philadelphia Marathon. How could I possibly deal with a two-week-long party and still train properly? After mulling it over for a few days, I decided to enjoy the first week as I normally would: run five miles every day with a 10-miler on Saturday and another on Sunday. This week coincided with a recovery week in my schedule anyway, so I was set. During the second week, I would have to back off the eating and drinking and get all the key runs in for the week. I would allow myself to skip only the recovery runs if necessary.

The plan went off without a hitch. I thoroughly enjoyed the first week and then jumped back into serious training the following week. That Wednesday, I was scheduled for a 15-mile medium/long run, and I decided to run most of it as multiple out-and-backs along the beautiful boardwalk of Ocean City. The boardwalk spans about three miles along the beach and is lined with gorgeous beachfront homes, shops, restaurants, arcades, and amusement piers.

I left the condo at around 7:00 a.m. to get the run in and beat the heat. The temps were expected to hit 90 degrees by early afternoon. It was already mid-70s and pretty humid, but I counted my blessings and started my journey.

I was feeling good, and the miles were clicking away. I was enjoying the roar of the ocean, the early-morning strollers and bikers, and the other runners. I was feeling great. It was one of those runs that just makes you feel happy to be alive and healthy enough to do what you love. I looked down at my Garmin. I had already ticked off about eight miles. Ah, bliss! As I was thinking these wondrous thoughts, I noticed a group of six teenaged boys hanging on a bench about 100 yards ahead. They had that typical beach-town wannabe-surfer look and were far from an intimidating group. But they were eyeballing me and stood up as I approached. There was no one around on this particular stretch of boardwalk but me, and there was no doubt that it was me that they were interested in. Ah, man, I thought to myself. I was reminded of my awkward high school years and the uncomfortable feeling I got when passing a group of kids on the street—a bit self-conscious, a bit nervous, and a bit embarrassed.

As I passed them, they started running next to me in a pack.

“Hey, man,” one of them said.

“Hey,” I responded, trying to be cool. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, just saying hello.”

“Cool. What’s going on?” I asked him.

“How far are you running?” he asked.

“I’m going 15 miles today,” I answered.

“Get the hell out of here!” he yelled. ad “You’re too damn old to run five miles, let alone 15 miles!” To this, his friends roared with laughter.

“You think so?” I asked him. “I’m only 39.”

“Only 39!” he screamed. More laughing from the jogging peanut gallery.

“Pops, you’re like . . . 24 years older

than me!”

“Damn, then you’re just a little boy,” I said.

“Ooooooh,” the peanut gallery chorused.

“How about if we race, Pops?” the boy asked. The “Pops” thing was already getting on my nerves.

“Yeah, a race!” someone in the peanut gallery huffed. They were already getting tired, and they had been running only about a minute.

“Sure,” I said. I looked down at my Garmin. “I’ve already run about 8 1/2 miles, but I’Il give it a shot.”

“Dude, if you have a heart attack, it ain’t my fault.”

“No problem. I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

I looked up ahead and saw that we were about a half mile from a break in the boardwalk. It’s where the large boardwalk ends and a smaller, narrower one bears off to the left, leading to some condos and small shops. At the break was a metal railing, a perfect finish line.

“Let’s race to the end of the large boardwalk, right to the fence,” I suggested. “Unless that’s too far away for you,” I added with a smirk.

“You got it, Pops,” he answered. “On three.”

“One, two…”

“Three!” and he was off, sprinting like a madman. He pulled about six feet ahead of me, running like a bat out of hell, as I just gradually increased my pace. The peanut gallery stopped to walk, and I could hear the huffing and puffing fading in the background as I accelerated. This kid, however, did not seem to be laboring at all, and he was moving pretty fast.

Ilengthened my stride and quickly caught up with him. I ran right beside him for a minute, trying to check out his condition from the corner of my eye. His longish blond hair was flopping around in his face, and I couldn’t tell whether he was tired or not.

“You gonna pass out yet, kid?” I asked as I started to pull ahead of him.

“No way!” he yelled, and accelerated.

The fence was coming up fast. I pulled away some more. I peeked down at my Garmin and saw that my pace had gone from 8:30 per mile to 6:15. Not bad for an old guy.

I peeked over my shoulder and there was surfer dude, coming up fast. I hammered some more and pulled away . . . this time for good. I had to be sure to put enough space between us to allow time to stop before the fence. Surfer boy didn’t think of that. I touched the fence and turned around. He came flying at the fence, couldn’t stop fast enough, and ran into it hard.

“Ugh,” he grunted as his midsection hit the metal poles.

“Ouch,” I said, looking at him, trying to both hold back my grin and catch my breath.

Before long, his buddies came jogging up behind us. They were screaming and clapping. “Johnny! Old dude took you to school, man\”

One kid came over and shook my hand.

“Dude, that rocked. You’re one fast old dude. My dad is younger than you, and he can’t even run around the block!”

I just laughed. I made sure that Johnny was all right, said my good-byes, and continued off down the narrower section of the boardwalk. On the way back, I passed them again, sitting on the same bench, this time to my left. As l approached, they all stood up again, Ugh, come on! I thought to myself. There’s no way I can do that again!

But that is not what they had in mind. As I came up to them, I gave them a little wave. And they started clapping and bowing to me, chanting, “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!” I smiled (I couldn’t contain it this time) and waved as I ran past. I felt peppy and fast for the remainder of the run, and maybe even a little bit younger.

I got back to the condo and stood at the front steps, stretching and enjoying a better-than-usual postrun high. The temps were starting to climb, and I was thankful that I had gotten my run in early. The sliding doors opened and my wife stepped out to say hello.

“How was the run?” she asked.

“Great!” I answered.

“Ah, you always say that,” she said, smiling.

I smiled back.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I do.” i)