Already awake, and curled like a busted C, Jacob has just taken his hands from his ears when Dad thumps the bedroom door and says Up.

Two secs, Dad.

Had an extra half-hour already. Let's go.

Jacob hides his eyes, turns the lamp on. Rolls over. Almost a whole year now since Cornelius Waldengarden got Dad into running. Johnny Johnny, let me tell you, big boy, it's absolutely great exercise.

To watch them slog it round the old horse track up beside the arena almost hurt at first. Thick spit stuck to Dad's huff-puffing lips. His slow heavy strides, like the ground wouldn't let him lift his feet. Neily slowing down for him, jogging backwards. C'mon, Johnny McKnight, move those bones. Shut yer gob, Waldengarden. Jockeys on the trot Xicking whip sticks and clucking their tongues and having a laugh, look at these wackos, who in hell runs round a dirt track at seven in the morning? Every day. Even Sundays. With Neily, without Neily. Like something inside Dad sprouted. Down to Belleville for new shoes, track suits. Running logs, electrolytes. It's got hold of me, son. Interval training, speed work. Johnny, Johnny, you're looking great, boy. And by spring it's Neily still driving down to the horse track for laps and Dad driving down Sterling Road to spray-paint mile markers on the telephone poles and the pavement - three, then five, then six miles out. And back.

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Last modified on July 26, 2006  | © Telegram 2005