Race Day

It's late September, and if you find yourself in the company of a fellow past or present, pseudo-athletic, compulsive distance runner, sooner or later the conversation invariably turns to the event by which all Hill City natives of that ilk define themselves.

 "I've never really enjoyed running the Ten-Miler," remarked just such an acquaintance, a veteran of well over one hundred races, including many marathons, now, predictably, sidelined by knee injuries. He was in no way disparaging the organization of the race -- which is superb in every respect -- but rather implying that its grueling finish -- one and one-half miles straight uphill -- effectively negates the pleasure and satisfaction normally evoked by such sporting exercises.

Since it is the only race I enter -- and has been for the last twenty years -- it is impossible for me to compare the Virginia Ten-Miler -- race or course -- to any other. However, I believe a mind-numbing familiarity with each -- spawned by thousands of recreational runs and twenty-five serious ones -- humbly qualifies me to articulate a knowledgeable opinion and, in the process, add some insight, both sensory and imaginative, to the term "enjoyment."

I begin by praising the beauty and variety of our journey.

We start -- and end -- in Midtown, to use the newly-coined nomenclature, at E. C. Glass High School, the sprawling, red-brick edifice which majestically straddles the former Lynchburg Fairgrounds, still, after fifty years of expanding boundaries, the natural, if not the geographical center of the city, and, thus, a fitting icon for this annual ritual.

From there, over a gentle uphill and then downhill slope, we pass through a light retail-industrial corridor, highlighted by a small church, a television station, a bank building, a fast-food restaurant, and, on the north side of the road, a recent addition to the landscape, the imposing Centra Health Cancer Center, replacing a two-decades-old former department store and Thomas Road facility, and now gateway to the Lynchburg General campus, its own massive new wing towering in the foreground.

As we coast downhill, leaving behind two more banks, a service station, a florist, and Holy Cross School, development tapers off; natural vegetation sprouts briefly on our left before we encounter a medical center, an apartment complex, and a synagogue, but more luxuriantly on the opposite side, where the overgrown topography declines into Blackwater Creek.

We glide by the Farm Basket and turn sharply uphill, entering a residential neighborhood, a diminutive Greek Church on one side, a prominent red brick ranch set back on the other, its roadside mailbox decorated with an American flag.

Though still tracking uphill, the course levels off, and we contemplate a marvelous assortment of structural and horticultural designs which continues another mile along Langhorne Road: mini-mansions with circular driveways, hidden courtyards, elaborate lawns; comfortably modest ranch and Cape Cod homes with brick or wood siding; ivy-lined brick and stone walls, white picket and rail fencing, huge boxwood barriers; oak, pine, poplar, and dogwood trees of all shapes and sizes shading the sidewalks and front yards.

We crest the Rivermont Terrace incline and swing east down Rivermont Avenue, which exhibits on both sides an enchanting array of private and institutional architecture: stately, spacious Cape Cod houses; the grand, elegantly landscaped, Randolph College presidential home; the sweeping vista presented by the distant, white-columned superstructure of the Villa Maria overlooking its extensive grounds and forest; two impressive churches; apartment buildings of ancient and contemporary vintage; the curiously-located and impossible-to-characterize Cavalier sports bar/diner/pool hall; and, finally, on our left, the distinctive red-brick wall lining the perimeter of Randolph College, now educating males and females, its two historic landmarks, Main Hall and Smith Hall, rising to dominate the Avenue.

The next block, according to legend, unveils Lynchburg's first strip center, which offers a pleasant collection of small shops, offices, and (two) restaurants, planted eclectically in the midst of a traditional neighborhood. From here, it's only a few hundred yards to the venerable, yellow-brick Garland-Rodes School, housing the Virginia School of the Arts and gateway to Riverside Park, itself a repository for odd and interesting sights: well-worn public tennis courts and playground equipment; a sentinel-like gazebo; a decrepit, grass-filled swimming pool, the vestige of a bygone segregated era; a yet-to-be-restored, steam-powered passenger train; the remains of Stonewall Jackson's packet boat, recently sheltered from further deterioration; a stone platform overlooking storied Treasure Island -- all surrounding a vast, open field, the site, on non-race days, of airborne golf balls, footballs, and baseballs.

We emerge from the Park's second entrance, between two thick stone columns, and turn back up the Avenue, just before the streetscape begins to show its age, and embark on the long trek homeward, retracing our steps, the splendid panorama now seen in reverse, like a DVD tracking backwards.

It's a joy to behold -- unique, extraordinary, memorable.

Not only is the Virginia Ten-Miler my only race, unless I'm traveling it's essentially the only course I dine on, starting from my home, either biting off the 5.5-mile loop through Riverside Park or consuming the full ten by continuing to the High School. Thus, the race serves up refreshing and gratifying delicacies in contrast to my routine, tedious outings.

First of all, it validates my putative training regimen: one or two five-milers a week, and one ten-miler, following the pattern described above. My short runs supply all the mental relaxation and physical conditioning I (or anyone) really need; the only reason I run farther, I tell myself, is to maintain the state of fitness presumably required for a decent showing come September. Of course, if the Virginia Ten-Miler were tragically to expire, my obsessive personality would no doubt compel me to persist in those needless extensions, putting the lie to my self-delusions.

Secondly, race day is the one time during the year I can revel in the open road, unconfined to narrow, constricting sidewalks. The broad expanses of Rivermont Avenue and Langhorne Road spread out before me like the parting of the Red Sea, and, oh, what rewards lie therein: a shorter distance, granted by a handful of yards but measurable nonetheless; a more forgiving surface, if the oft-promulgated contention that asphalt is softer than concrete has any substance; a smoother path, absent the curbs and uneven pavement which induce trips and falls; and a safer passage, purged of the vehicular traffic usually clogging the roads and lurking in the shadows of side streets.

Third, in a paradox that informs road races, I am forever solitary, but now part of a crowd. I prefer to run alone; I don't have to adjust my (slow) pace to match that of my partner, or consume valuable energy engaging in idle chatter. But the herd effect does yield two explicit benefits, my companions colorfully camouflauging my stark visibility as a crazed distance runner while quickening my competitive juices to generate a little more speed.

And, finally, like bees to honey, race day rouses interested observers from their hives, who, though slimmer in number than when headliners led the pack, deliver a much-appreciated buzz along the way. When I hear those friendly, encouraging acclamations, "Looking good," or "Go, Marc," I raise my weary head from its habitual downward concentration and respond with a forced smile or limp wave.

In spite of these enticements, I must admit that, as my seventh decade looms on the horizon, my enthusiasm for this runfest may be diminishing, as it already has for so many of my contemporaries, who have gracefully retired from the contest, either for physical reasons or simply because they would prefer to avoid all the gratuitous pain. It's becoming more arduous for me, too -- not to run it, but to post a respectable time, under eighty minutes, eight-minute miles, which I have never failed to attain, and significant because I believe it is the number which separates running from jogging. But just as each passing year inexorably produces another birthday, so too does it add precious seconds, even minutes, to the Ten-Miler record book. In fact, practice runs of 80:50 and 81:35, the only two I could stomach in the stifling heat that blanketed us all summer, suggest that I may never again see 80:00 when I cross the finish line.

I suspect, however, that just as my measure of success has steadily regressed over the years -- from 62:00 (my best time) to 70:00 to 80:00 -- once that standard has fallen, I'll keep running, with the bar set a little lower (actually, in raw numbers, higher, since this game is scored like golf).

Thus it is with studied apprehension that I rise this morning at 6:00 AM, and commence my pre-race routine: stimulate my facial nerves with a splash and a shave; awaken my slumbering muscles and constricted blood vessels under a hot shower; don my pink-and-yellow Elvis tee-shirt, reserved annually for this day only, to which is attached my entrant's identification; perform my normal stretching exercises; nourish myself with two pieces of dry toast; and, forgoing wallet and license, taking only a single car key, drive to E. C. Glass High School, park on Murrell Road, and surreptitiously conceal said key behind my right front tire. Now I'm ready.

And, along with one thousand others, I am in luck. It's a perfect day for running, the first like it we have seen in three months: 55 degrees, low humidity, a cloudless blue sky overhead, a personal best performance there for the taking -- unless, of course, you are 59 and your best days are far behind you.

Warming up, I jog slowly across the overflowing parking lot toward the broad greensward which fronts the school auditorium and is bustling with activity. I skirt booths and tables displaying an amplitude of goods and services, all gratis -- memorabilia, massages, refreshments, medical advice -- en route to the water stand, where I quickly down two cups of lukewarm water, which, in a matter of minutes, tickle my bladder. I hurry towards a lineup of portajohns and wait impatiently to relieve myself; hardly anything comes out.

The race announcer, his voice booming like a brass horn over a loudspeaker, shepherds us to the staging area, interrupting his commands for frequent, but totally unnecessary, weather updates and to introduce today's favorites and three alumni of all thirty-four Ten-Milers (two mutually exclusive groups). I wander among the dense assemblage -- multi-colored tee shirts, sport tops, drooping shorts, and athletic shoes intermingling like magnified pixels -- catch the eye of a familiar face, wish him or her well, and snake towards the front of the pack, even though it will rapidly outdistance me. An imperfect but nonetheless stirring rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner sends shivers up and down my spine -- or maybe it's the chill in the air, or the irrepressible excitement of yet another ten-Miler. I glance to my left at the iron sculpture of an Olympian in flight, by Umana, strategically placed adjacent to the starting line, lean forward in imitation, take a deep breathe -- and then, a sharp retort, and we're off.

The initial downhill mile poses a vexing question for first and old-timers: how fast? I believe I will have to run a 7:30 to have any chance of breaking 80:00, but too swift a pace will surely sap my reserves. Inspired by a surge of adrenalin and the mass of fellow travelers, I lengthen my stride. The mile marker is always deceptive; after rounding the curve and passing Holy Cross, I feel it should be right there. It doesn't matter this morning, because I'm cruising in this crisp, cool, Canadian air, my concern now that I've been too quick -- is that possible -- when I see the numerals flashing: 7:15.

Now the grade increases -- in our favor -- and I let gravity pull me downhill. Like hands clapping, my feet noisily slap the pavement, crunching the minimal padding in my aging (four months old) Brooks Terminators. I smile at my neighbor, because I can read his mind: The return trip won't be this kind. Across Blackwater Creek, the first signs of exertion emerge: beads of perspiration on my forehead, a circle of moisture staining Elvis's nose, forced inhalations in lieu of easy breaths -- and a slackening pace as I climb Langhorne Road. I know this hill too well: the closing half-mile of my long runs from home, but today only the second mile, which I complete at 15:10.

After that steep incline, the third mile appears to level out, another cruel illusion; it's all uphill. Pockets of spectators are scattered along the roadway, including a gathering at my own street, whose encouragement I acknowledge with a nod and a wave. I'm holding a comfortable pace, nestled in a sweet spot between adequate speed and energy conservation. My confidence is growing; no longer a mere possibility, eighty minutes is suddenly a probability. I sweep through the Langhorne Road s-curve into a slight declivity, accelerate, and stretch for the mile marker: 23:00.

Yesterday, the Rivermont Terrace hill would have presented its usual stern test; today it's a minor inconvenience, peremptorily surmounted. A large group of well-wishers is gathered at the crest, spurring us around a hard right and onto the four-lane Avenue. The runners are spread out by now, each in a mobile cocoon, struggling to break free of his limitations. We head straight into a rising sun, its warming effect pleasantly moderated by the dry air, the smooth downhill, and my breathing eases on the flatland fronting Randolph College. Just as the four-milers are peeling off towards campus and their finish line, I see the hard-charging race leaders streaking by us on the opposite side of the road, their arms and legs pumping like pistons, and watch the mile marker clock 30:40.

The fifth mile is another flirt, seducing us with a steady run through Rivermont's picturesque storefronts and a gauntlet of cheerleaders, inspiring me to charge up the short rise into the Park and then down the trail which leads to the river, almost floating, I feel so light, my feet barely skimming the surface. I hear a voice calling out the times from above, it's so close, when, like a slap in the face, I confront an almost vertical climb that reduces me to a crawl, while the pregnant seconds tick on, tick on. Grabbing for air, I keep my legs churning, and cross the mile marker at 38:30, still not over the crown.

The sixth mile is critical for me. Halfway home, I peer into the future where the finish line awaits, yet to achieve it I must repress all such visions, and take one mile at a time. I burst free of the Park shadows and feel a wall ahead, the sensation of approaching exhaustion. I'm tempted to slow down, slacken the pace, rest, but I will my body forward, drawing on the reserves of oxygen all those training miles have manufactured and stored, and, like a gear downshifting, my determination is rewarded: a second wind kicks in. My lungs begin pumping reflexively; my stride lengthens. I repass Randolph College at 46:10.

Now I'm counting the hills -- only two more until the Big One, both in this seventh mile, a modest one up Rivermont Avenue, easily scaled, and the other up Rivermont Terrace, where the downward opposite slope almost propels me over the top and to the mile marker. It's best now to block out all externalities and concentrate on the task at hand -- lean into the run and put one foot in front of the other; in this mode, I'm surprised at my own strength. I repass the Williams Home at 54:00.

Believe it or not, the eighth mile is an opportunity to make up a few seconds; once you navigate the s-curve, it's all downhill. A nagging question hovers on the edge of your consciousness: Should I run faster? Or, in actuality, can I run faster? The answer lies somewhere in a Twilight Zone between both. My mind says "yes," my body says "no." Or is it the other way around, since my mind is well aware of the suffering that awaits, and wants to conserve the body's strength. It engages in some wishful thinking, too: if only the the last two miles were like this one, I could cruise in, just like I'm cruising now as I hit the eight-mile marker at 61:30, a 7:30 pace, my fastest since mile one.

My strategy, such as it is, for those last two miles never varies in its naked simplicity: gut it out. I shoot down the hill to Blackwater Creek, and I feel a slight ache stirring in my calves and thighs, foreshadowing a deeper soreness tomorrow. It becomes irrelevant as I hit bottom, tease myself up and over a little hump, and collide with Farm Basket Hill. If I don't stop, I know I can complete the last two miles in, at worst, seventeen minutes. And how tempting it is, with my lungs pumping and my legs carrying dead weight, to slow down, to walk, to catch my breath, just for a few seconds -- but I persist, hardly running, jogging, looking ahead for small victories along the endless climb: Kulman Place, Hill Street, the Jewish synagogue. The grade levels a bit, then resumes its angle, and I'm fighting it, actually conquering it, all the way to the nine-mile marker, which I pass at 69:35.

Now the roadway flattens for a hundred yards in front of Holy Cross, affording a bit of relief and the opportunity to gather oneself for the long, slow incline that is the last mile. I look up, lower my head, and go after it, whispering to myself, "Almost home," echoing the cries of support and polite applause emanating from a few scattered spectators. As Hardee's, then CVS fall in my wake, at the false summit of the hill, I pass a tired runner who gasps, "This is the hardest part," while all I am thinking is how each step is bringing me closer to the end.

I crest the hill, see the goal ahead, and dig deep for a closing kick, not much, but enough to hold my place, I'm sure, until someone sprints by me, intent on saving a couple of seconds. The shouts of the crowd, the announcer counting off the times, the instructions of the chute officials, are all empty noise. I'm almost there, and suddenly I am there; I fall forward across the finish line, and slow, finally, to a walk, stop, bend over, grab my shorts, and breathe the sweet, cool air.

And then I remember the clock, winking at me from overhead: 77:35. I'm still a runner! Old age vanquished for another year! What a race! What a day!

The Muscle Car

If you were a teen-aged boy growing up in the 1960's, chances are your second favorite fantasy was to own a muscle car. If you were the blue-blooded heir to a burgeoning retail furniture empire, chances are your indulgent parents would buy you one.

It wasn't my first car. No, I initially took flight at the wheel of a slightly-used 1962 baby-blue Falcon, Ford's misnomered compact car posing as a bird of prey and the precurser to its expansive stable of equestrian vehicles: the sporty Mustang, serviceable Maverick, and forgettable Pinto. It was a boxy two-door coupe with Ford's signature round taillights, a bench seat upholstered in a two-tone blue-and-white checked vinyl, and barely enough energy to climb the Langhorne Road hill every morning on the way to E. C. Glass High School.

You would think such a nondescript, unobtrusive set of wheels could be easily concealed -- but you would be wrong. Back in 1965, when I matriculated at Washington and Lee University, freshmen were not allowed to have cars on campus, nor within the town or county environs, a policy strictly monitored by the school's stocky round-faced security officer, Bill Murray, aka Murph, although an appellation more appropriate to his appearance and profession would have been Sam Ketchem, Dick Tracy's omnipresent sidekick. I heeded the rule my first semester, but upon returning to school in January, with my father's silent blessing, I saw no harm in surreptitiously stashing the car behind the Schewel store on Main Street in Lexington and reserving it for weekend road trips, until Murph approached me one afternoon and casually informed me that my little blue Falcon needed new front tires.

It almost wasn't my second car, either. After completing that first year and becoming legally eligible to maintain an automobile at W&L, I convinced my father that my well-worn Falcon was inadequate for traversing the mountainous course between Lynchburg and Lexington on a regular basis, in response to which he brought home for my inspection one summer afternoon the most beautiful car I had ever seen: a stunning 1963 or 1964 forest green Thunderbird, with a white vinyl top and leather interior. Why he did it remains a mystery, because, after shifting my salivatory glands into overdrive and inflaming my desires to a fever pitch, he ignominously jerked that masterpiece on wheels out from under me, apparently deciding that it was too flashy, too powerful, and too sumptuous for a college sophomore, thus igniting a grossly immature fit of rage for an eighteen-year-old.

He must have experienced a guilty conscience, because, shortly thereafter, he dispatched me, along with a Schewel employee who presumably possessed some car-buying acumen and negotiating skills, to the now defunct Virginian Motors on Twelfth and Church Streets to scope out a brand new 1966 Fairlane GT -- Ford's version of the muscle car. (If you haven't figured it out by now, my father was a Ford disciple and the happy owner of a 1963 white Galaxie convertible which he drove for at least ten years.) It almost made me forget that Thunderbird. It was coated in a deep, rich, wine-dark burgundy finish, the perfect complement to its crisp, clean, aggressive styling, and featured a rakish horizontal split grill framed by stacked chrome headlights, an elongated hood flowing straight back through a slight bubble to rectangular taillights, a distinctive white racing stripe stretching from fender to fender, and a masculine four-speed gear shift protruding between two black leather bucket seats.

What really defined the muscle car were its mechanics: the powerful, throaty, 390-hp V-8 engine, four-barrel carburetor, dual exhausts, heavy-duty suspension, and disc brakes, all designed to propel the vehicle into rapid acceleration (providing you could shift through the gears fast enough) and speeds far in excess of all legal limits, and the proud driver into the eager clutches of attractive young women. This Fairlane was no exception, as Ford had raced it into production to compete with GM's already popular models: the Chevrolet Chevelle Super Sport, the Olds Cutlass 4-4-2, and the classic Pontiac GTO, variations of which could be seen cruising the Lexington campus, the envy of every student except for a rare one or two whose parents were well-heeled enough to spoil him with a true sports car: the Chevrolet Corvette.

A necessary prerequisite to owning and operating a muscle car was the ability to manipulate a manual transmission with reasonable dexterity, although editions were available with automatics, which in my mind merely served to relegate them to the status of pseudo-muscular. Keeping the dream alive, I taught myself how to use a clutch and shift gears in a company pickup truck while working at Schewels one summer -- during my lunch hours, of course. I practiced in the sloping parking lot behind the Downtown store, violently shaking the truck, often losing control entirely, and repeatedly bouncing it off the rear wall of the building before realizing that it would smoothly accelerate if I gently depressed the gas pedal, held it, and then eased up on the clutch until it engaged.

My Fairlane GT did not garner me any girls -- its striking good looks and forceful personality could not entirely substitute for my own -- but it did win me a few friends, most of whom wanted to test drive it or borrow it for a road trip to a neighboring female institution -- Southern Seminary, Randolph-Macon, Hollins, or Sweet Briar. Although now a sophomore living in a fraternity house and eager to ingratiate myself with my Greek brothers, I staunchly withstood their entreaties -- for a while. At heart, however, I was a generous, trusting soul, and finally there came the day when my sympathetic temperament overcame my better judgment -- and I could resist no longer.

Of all the supplicants I could have loaned my car to, the one I chose was the worst. Tony B. was an awkward, brash, irresponsible Yankee classmate of mine who had flunked out of school as a freshman, taken a year off, and rematriculated. He wanted to go to medical school, but never seemed to crack a book, and spent most of his time at the fraternity house laughing at his own stories, chain-smoking, and playing bridge. He even looked the part of a ne'er-do-well, with tight curly hair and a visage that was all black glasses and teeth. I was so taken aback at hearing he had actually secured a date in Lynchburg -- and only needed a ride to consummate it -- that I meekly surrendered to his pleadings and reluctantly handed over the keys.

When you consider Tony B.'s reputation and routine misbehavior, the outcome of this foolish act is hardly surprising. You would think I would remember where I was, what I was doing -- but I don't -- when I received that fateful telephone call informing me that Terrible Tony had been involved in a single-vehicle accident on Rt. 501 -- and not a simple fender-bender, either. No, he had ripped up the entire driver's side from stem to stern, squashing it like an empty beer can, while, fortunately, I guess, harming not one curly hair on his bony skull. Cursing Tony, angry at myself, fearful of the consequences, I had no choice but to inform my father of this woeful situation.

He was more lenient and understanding than I deserved. He came to Lexington, took me to the Ford dealership, assessed the damage while I stood nearby, silently weeping, and decided that, since it was covered by insurance, we should authorize this Humpty Dumpty to be put back together again. Without complaint, I walked and hitched rides for the next four weeks, until summoned to the body shop, where I was presented with my vehicle reborn -- immaculate, unblemished, complete in every detail, down to the white racing stripe.

I had learned one bitter lesson: don't let anyone borrow your car. Is it possible that another even more painful one lay before me?

I usually parked my car on a narrow cross street that bordered the north side of the fraternity house, out of sight of the southwest corner where my second-floor room was located -- but not out of mind. Was I dreaming three months later when, about two in the morning, restless and semi-awake, I rolled over in bed and heard a growl eerily similar to that produced by the sudden acceleration of my muscle car? Alas, if only it were so, for what was to greet me as I blithely exited the dining hall and crossed the parking lot that Sunday morning but a bewildering nakedness, a pregnant vacancy, a profound emptiness, devoid even of the imaginary ticking of a silenced V-8 engine. My car was gone -- obviously stolen.

And how, your natural curiosity might prompt you to ask. Let's just put it this way: I made it easy for him; I left the keys in the starter. Whether this was habitual stupidity on my part or some temporary impulsive death wish is as irrelevant today as it was then. Since I was willing to loan my car to Tony B., you might justfiably conclude that I would place a similar level of trust in the general lot of humanity, inducing me to install, figuratively, an invitation on the dashboard of my dearest possession: take me.

But other people's faith in human nature was not quite so naive, especially if said individuals were employed in law enforcement. Fourteen hours after reporting my car stolen, I was ceremoniously shepherded to Police Headquarters, ushered into the type of green-walled isolation chamber you read about in formulaic detective novels, and grilled unmercifully by two of Lexington's finest as to the locus and range of my activities since the previous night.

The devious motive behind their threatening line of interrogation became abundantly clear when one officer leaned forward, peered into my eyes, and spewed forth this disturbing question: "And just why did you leave your wrecked car out in the country and report it stolen, Mr. Schewel?" using the polite form of address favored by Washington and Lee gentlemen.

Mentally bruised and battered, I stared back, swallowed, and spoke softly: "Did you say wrecked?" While an oddly familiar shiver coursed through my body, I knew then that they had found my car, indeed wrecked again, and were accusing me -- a lying W&L mink -- of abandoning it in a drunken stupor and concocting this wretched tale to absolve myself of all responsibility. In other words, I had stolen my own car.

For once, justice was served, not only because I steadfastly defended my innocence, but also because these insolent investigators knew all along that mine was only one of a rash of car thefts occurring in the neighborhood, more of which were to ensue before the perpetrator was eventually apprehended, tried, and convicted, on testimony that included your narrator's.

After two hours of relentless verbal fencing, the officers accepted my story and decided to take me to see what was left of my car, disheartened at losing their suspect, but silently smug at the thought of inflicting more torment on this spoiled rich kid. In the dead of night, they escorted me into the bowels of Rockbridge County, where, along some deserted, winding roadway, the thief -- or thieves -- had run the car off the pavement and ripped the entire left side -- crushing it like an empty beer can -- a depressingly familiar sight, exactly replicating what I had wept over six months ago in a Ford body shop. The front and back seats and floorboards were littered with trash and real beer cans, the telltale evidence, according to the cops, of this cunning student's culpability.

Needless to say, my insurance company didn't look too favorably upon my driving -- or non-driving -- habits. On the other hand, the local Ford dealer thought I was the second coming of Robert E. Lee, based on my contributions to the local economy, and expressed his sincere desire that I enroll for the seven-year Law School plan. He put my car back together -- again -- and I guess if you were to put a positive spin on this dual calamity, you could say that, since it was the same driver's side that was twice destroyed, at least one-half of the car was still brand new and all muscle.

I did manage to graduate from college two years later without further automotive incidents, my Fairlane GT remaining intact -- except for a cracked steering wheel, a stark reminder of its storied past -- until I traded it for a more sedate Pontiac Tempest. Even though I came to realize just how superfluous all that power and flash really were, and despite my trials and tribulations, my affection for the muscle car never died. One-half of the Fairlane GT's manufactured by Ford must have been burgundy, because, in later years, it seemed that every one I passed displayed that rich, wine-dark color -- accented by a distinctive white racing stripe. I would gaze with nostalgia at each sighting, reliving the fantasies of my teenage years, when I yearned to own a muscle car, and whisper to myself, "It's mine. Why did I ever let it go?"

The Cruelest Month

T. S. Eliot wrote that April is the cruelest month, teasing us after the harshness of winter,

. . . breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain,

but ultimately disappointing. "Fear death by water," warns the poet, and do not be tempted by the promise of the new season. He accosts an acquaintance on the street and admonishes him:

"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
"Has it begun to sprout?
"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?"

Uncomfortably bleak and morbid is this April Waste Land. My readers can rest easy: I will not be nearly as gloomy, poetic, or dense in explicating my cruelest month: September.

Even though it's been a hot one, with temperatures exceeding 90 degrees every day, it seemed, in August, and hardly a drop of rain to boot, who really wants to see the summer end? And end it will, by the calendar on September 23rd, if it hasn't already done so, practically speaking, with the passing of Labor Day and a sighting of school buses.

It's still warm this September 9th, and as I sit at my kitchen table composing this paean to summer, I am clad in the uniform of the season: a splendidly skimpy tee shirt and pair of khaki shorts, the same two articles of clothing -- in design, that is -- I don every evening after work, starting around May 1st, when I can at last shed my cool weather costume of jeans and sweatshirt.

I gaze pensively through the window at a scene so vivid and clear in the morning air, it might be high-definition TV: the lush foliage blanketing the oak and maple trees; the resilient grass still green in spite of the drought; my shirtless neighbor examining his yard, planning his pruning schedule. Then, with trepidation and restlessness, I turn to the calendar hanging on the wall (only three weeks until October 1st) and ponder: How many more days remain before I must consign to winter hibernation these tee shirts and shorts, not to mention the short-sleeved shirts I wear on dress-down work days, themselves soon to be supplanted by their long-sleeved brethren.

Summer, of course, is the season of vacations, usually of a coastal flavor, but whether that interlude is in June, July, or August, it's over and done by September 1st, and the next one looks as far off as a star seen through the wrong end of a telescope. For our family, two vacations bookend the summer: four days in Myrtle Beach the third week in June and four days in New York City over Labor Day weekend centered around the U.S. Tennis Open, between which volumes of days compress almost instantaneously into a few flimsy pages. The beach in June can be complacently deceptive: viewed from a chair anchored in the sand, book, beer, shades, and sunscreen at hand, Labor Day appears as distant as the hazy horizon where sea and sky merge. You confidently reassure yourself that two full months of summer lie ahead, yet before you exhale, they have evaporated.

As summer draws to a close, so too do the extended daylight hours here in Virginia, where at the summer solstice the sun rises at 5:30 and doesn't set until 9:00, and this September eve graced us with its presence until 7:30, illuminating my entire four-hour journey by car and Metro to Washington, D.C. (which incidentally interrupted the composition I so diligently commenced this morning). How miserable that trip would have been in November or December: the skies dark by the time I reached Vienna at 6:00 PM; undoubtedly, a cold rain falling or a brisk wind blowing, making the 15-minute wait at the open-air train station even more irritating and interminable; and orienting myself after emerging from the McPherson Place underground for the one-block walk to my hotel surely a challenge, because I never ask for directions.

I have mixed feelings about Daylight Savings Time. Since, for one who devours automobile miles like popcorn, late afternoon driving is much more pleasant under nature's light, I do not relish days shortened by both the calendar and the clock. On the other hand, DST's later-rising sun leaves early-morning runners -- like myself -- enshrouded in darkness, although I can't deny a stab of delight at watching the skies gradually lighten -- from star-studded blackness, to gray, to violet, to red-orange -- during a chilly outing in late fall or early spring. It's an easy choice, really: who would sacrifice those long, lazy, sun-drenched evenings for an earlier dawn?

Another somber signature of September is the rapidly approaching finale of the baseball season, after which aficionados of the game like myself sink into a deep slough of despond and an endless wait for spring and a rebirth of the box scores. In my book, the October playoffs and World Series are irrelevant appendages, although they do generate some interest for casual observers of the game (who don't deserve to be designated fans): only eight teams are left playing, and when you are an Athletic supporter or a Cub diehard, chances are both teams have already been banished to the golf course; those intriguing statistics, which, with their daily recalculations, enslave us statheads over the course of 162 games, are now cast in stone; and a glance at the scoreboard exposes its fulsome nakedness, only two or three scores on display, an embarrassing dilution from the full slate posted daily during the regular season.

A. Bartlett Giamatti, Renaissance scholar, President of Yale University, and Commissioner of Baseball -- whose brief tenure (September 1988-September 1989) was highlighted by his banning of Pete Rose from the Hall of Fame -- famously lamented the end of a baseball season when his beloved Red Sox were eliminated from playoff contention in an 8-7 loss to the Orioles on October 2nd, 19??.

"It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then, as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it the most, it stops. Today, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains, it stopped and summer was gone."

The last out silently shatters the writer's poignant illusions: "School will never start, rain will never come, sun will warm the back of your neck forever."

By the second week in September, football, mighty football, has eclipsed baseball in the minds and hearts of the American sports fan. How sad. Just when a handful of teams are fighting for their playoff lives, when one or two pitchers are stretching for that elusive and increasingly rare twentieth win, when a 50 home-run or 15o-rbi plateau is in sight, the air waves are saturated with the imposing, inaugural college and professional football games of the season. Analysis begins three days prior and continues three days after each weekend festival, consuming every hour of the intervening period with pigskin talk. And if you want to catch a baseball score on Saturday, forget it. You must wait for the ESPN Bottom Line to scrawl through fifty college football games between teams as obscure as a Slippery Rock.

I can't wait for the Super Bowl. Spring training starts thirty days later.

While I, an empty nester whose grown children have taken flight to make their way in the world, bemoan the passing of summer, untold numbers of younger parents are rejoicing: School's in. I will concede that it's more than a little selfish of me to express regret at this seasonal ritual, but consider these two exasperating phenomena: first, the ubiquitous school bus, as tenacious as a bloodhound, impeding my progress by its own lumbering pace or by its flashing red and yellow lights and retractable stop sign; and, second, the intrusive traffic congestion on the road where I run two mornings a week, a main thoroughfare for three neighborhood schools.

Admittedly, my self-serving attitude has taken a 180-degree turn since my rambunctious brood of five was stationed at home; back then I was promoting twelve months of school and packed highways. Today, like the students -- and presumably the teachers -- I'm rooting for more workdays, snow days, and holidays.

In truth, this anti-Septembrist diatribe has contradicted a fundamental philosophical conceit of mine: embrace enthusiastically the glory of each passing day, especially at the age of 59, when so many more have been left behind than lie ahead. And there are some redeeming qualities to cruel September.

After all, is not seasonal change refreshing, a rhythmic reminder of the cycle of life, providing us with something to anticipate (as well as complain about)? Winter around here seems hardly a threat, with temperatures regularly reaching the fifties in January and February in recent years and the minimal accumulation of a lonely snowfall gone in a few days.

Beyond that, the predictable abatement of the current tropical weather pattern should produce favorable conditions for the Virginia Ten-Miler two weeks hence. My closet is overflowing with long-sleeved shirts and wool jackets and slacks (many of them hideously outdated) just itching to be worn. As baseball ends, basketball begins, a poor substitute, but at least offering a modicum of media competition for that other sport. I could alter my running and driving habits to accommodate the spate of automobiles and buses clogging the arteries (not likely). And, on a materialistic note, September launches the fall selling season for retail home furnishings after the summer doldrums.

Finally, of course, as fall and winter approach, one can always sneak a guilty peek forward to one's favorite month: April.

Adventures in Boating

In 1988 I bought a boat; in 1994 I sold it. In affirmation of a sentiment articulated by thousands of other disillusioned boat owners, they were two of the happiest days of my life.

Science teaches us that life originated in a water habitat. History reveals that man, ever since he emerged from the swamp and discovered the principle of buoyancy, driven either by nostalgia or necessity, has been eager to return.

The first boats were undoubtedly utilitarian -- designed to transport people and products more efficiently than could pack animals or their own two feet, to facilitate the gathering of edible water-dwelling creatures, or to carry the curious and courageous into uncharted territories. But it probably wasn't long before the recreational allure of boating asserted itself, as pleasure-seekers were enticed aboard by sun and spray -- by the prospect of a freedom, tranquility, and escape they could not find on dry land.

My own motives were strictly pragmatic. Recently divorced, I was seeking a weekend activity to engage three lively children and one that might exhibit to single ladies my sportive nature and add some romance to a budding relationship.

My observation of boat owners back then had led me to conclude that, for them, their boats were more than recreational or sporting vehicles; they morphed into those toys so many men of means like to accumulate, revisiting their childhoods on a grander scale, or served to express a pure maleness (hardly any boat-owners were female) and, by extension, masculinity and virility. Viewed either way, bigger was better: the bigger the boat, the bigger the toy, or the bigger the you-know-what. And every boating enthusiast I knew was always trading up.

Actually I didn't buy the boat myself. My father, homebound by the cancer he would succumb to eight months later, brightened noticeably at my new-found interest and volunteered to finance the purchase. Whether this offer stemmed from generosity or perversity is a question for my readers to decide. Fifty years ago, before Smith Mountain disappeared into the lake of the same name, I dimly recall that my father shared ownership of a houseboat he and his partners kept anchored on the James River at Reusens. This experiment was apparently short-lived and not altogether satisfying, since, in later years, I don't remember my father ever setting foot on another boat, even a cruise ship. In more ways than one, I guess, I was destined to relive his misadventures.

Flush with cash, brimming with anticipatory excitement, yet unable to suppress entirely a nagging apprehension, I hastened to the nearest reputable boating establishment, and, upon the advice of an expert friend, drove off with a shiny blue-and-white 21-foot Baybreeze runabout. Foreshadowing an inauspicious future, shortly thereafter the boat store unceremoniously shuttered its doors, while my friend fell prey to a messy divorce, losing his wife, his house, and, most grievously, his boat.

Within days, I was rudely awakened to the pitfalls of boat ownership by the sudden realization that the operation and performance of this machine was not at all analogous to that of an automobile, as I had naively and erroneously assumed. With the simple turn of a key, cars start 99.9% of the time. You steer them through clearly delineated traffic lanes where other drivers observe generally accepted rules of the road. When you are finished using it, you park your car at your destination, lock the door with a remote control, and walk away. And, in spite of constant exposure to sun, snow, sleet, and rain, cars do not rust, deteriorate, or require any special maintenance, other than an occasional oil change and filling the radiator with antifreeze once every five years.

A boat, on the other hand, demands as much coddling as a newborn child. Why this piece of equipment, built for water travel, is best preserved when taken out of the water remains a mystery to me. It collects dirt, grime, and mildew with amazing rapidity and regularity. There are no rules of the road, other than yield to a bigger boat or get crushed. Twice a year you must put your boat (and yourself) through an expensive and bothersome process known as winterizing (and dewinterizing), unless you want to freeze (or burn up) your engine block. And, regardless of the level of tender-loving care lavished on your boat, you nervously approach it each time out with bated breath and one crucial question burning in your brain: will it start?

Most of my boating history has conveniently faded into oblivion. But, in fact, the tantalizing samples I am about to present will more than suffice for you to glean the full flavor. To appreciate these delights, you must know that, for the first two or three years I owned my boat, I dry-docked it on the trailer, a foolish exercise in false economy. Consequently, every time I used my boat, I had to attach the trailer to my boat hitch, maneuver it down a steep incline, back it into the water, unhook the boat, get back in the car, and pull the trailer up from the ramp. This meant that by the time I was ready to get in the boat and start it up, I was thoroughly exhausted. It also meant that the sophisticated stereo equipment I (or my father) had paid extra for was stolen within a month.

Nevertheless, I persevered.

Not long after acquiring my boat, I was smitten by a lady to whom I began to devote serious energy and attention. Since she was, in her words, "a hard-working country girl," I thought a relaxing, peaceful, nautical tour of Smith Mountain Lake might appeal to her sensibilities. I chose a weekday afternoon -- to avoid any intrusive boat traffic -- purchased some cold cuts, cheese, and bread, and brought along a little wine to kindle the romance.

It was a glorious day, the kind that makes a man think all his struggles with his boat just might be worthwhile. The cloudless blue sky formed a perfect canopy over the bottle-green lake expanse and distant shoreline. The sun warmed our upper bodies, yet the heat was moderated by a gentle breeze which ruffled the water's surface, adding a rhythmic element to the idyllic setting.

The day progressed nicely into late afternoon. Overcoming my natural clumsiness, I handled the boat quite well, guiding it about the lake, pointing out significant landmarks (the few that I knew, lying about the others), and locating a quiet, sheltered cove where we could partake of food and beverage and engage in lighthearted conversation. Since I had agreed to get her home to her two boys by a certain hour, we had just begun to cruise across the lake to the boat landing when the engine emitted an ominous cough, sputtered, and then meekly expired, leaving us adrift, in silence, solitude, and suspended animation.

Mechanically challenged as I was, there was no hope of my figuring out a way to restart the engine. Out of stubbornness or stupidity, I had neglected to equip the boat with paddles. Frustrated and despondent, I cursed, fussed, stammered, and appealed hopelessly to the heavens, while my more self-possessed companion exhibited admirable patience and jocularity.

Fortunately, after an hour of hand-wringing, came the deus ex machina, another boater who, grasping our predicament but not wanting to risk either boat on a longer journey, volunteered to tow us to the near side of the lake -- the Franklin County side. He then offered to take me back across the lake to get my trailer.

If you think Smith Mountain Lake is big, try semi-circumnavigating it -- twice. The road was narrow, twisting, and uneven, the ride endless and harrowing, made even moreso by the rattle of the empty trailer on the way out and the unstable weight of the loaded one on the way back. More than once during that trip I entertained thoughts of abandoning the boat where it rested and taking up some less strenuous form of relaxation, but I couldn't bear the thought of allowing it to conquer me.

Shortly after sunset, weary and dispirited, we deposited the boat at the Marina and headed home, my nerves as frazzled as that sputtering motor, the romance of a perfect date evaporating in the wind like the smoke from a burnt-out engine.

I hadn't learned my lesson, however. A few months later I went back for more punishment -- and took my children. Already familiar with their father's manual ineptitude -- at the tender ages of eight, eleven, and fourteen -- they were justifiably skeptical of these marine excursions. Having repaired the motor and coped with a major crisis, I had gained a new level of confidence and was anxious to showcase my proficiency.

The day was somewhat overcast, with lowering clouds on the horizon, but having made the one-hour journey to the lake and packing more sandwiches and beverages (of the non-alcoholic variety), I was undaunted by any threatening weather. We executed a successful launch, motored around the lake for an hour, and were ready to break out the food when we noticed the boat listing precariously and water collecting at our feet. About this time a light rain began to fall, dampening our clothes and our spirits but hardly enough to fill the boat with water.

In a matter of minutes the boat was riding low, rocking unsteadily, and becoming difficult to handle, while the water continued to rise, although at a very slow rate. "This is not looking good, kids," I brilliantly concluded. "I think we need to bring this boat in." Naturally, they were disappointed, but faced with a choice of sinking or going ashore, they finally concurred. Much to my surprise -- and gratification - -the motor started up promptly, and, barely afloat, we crawled towards dry land.

By the time we reached the boat ramp, I was in a state of panic, knowing full well that we had narrowly escaped disaster. I jumped out of the boat, dashed to the car, and, probably on the third try, backed the trailer far enough into the water to enable us to hook up the boat, which had almost swamped. As the rain's intensity increased, further jarring my nerves, I frantically jerked our towels and food supplies out of the boat, threw them in the trunk of the car, and slammed down the top.

I rushed around to the driver's side, reached into my pocket for the car keys, and came up empty-handed. Oh yes, standing there in the thickening rain, with a boat full of water sitting on a trailer halfway up the ramp, I had locked the keys in the trunk of the car. I slumped dejectedly onto the the front seat, pounded my fists on the steering wheel, and let out a stream of curses which were only drowned out by the rain beating on the car's roof.

The rest of the story -- and its embarrassing denouement -- can be swiftly told. My resourceful lads attacked the back seat, which, this being an ancient two-door Cutlass, did not fold down, managed to detach it from its moorings, crawled into the trunk, and retrieved the keys. Slowly, very slowly, as my rear wheels strained against the weight and gripped for traction, I was able to pull the boat far enough up the ramp to allow the water to empty out -- through the bolt hole, which I had forgotten to plug the last time I drained the bottom of the boat, and the root cause of our sinking spell.

I wasn't savvy enough to sell my boat, even after that painful episode. No, I continued to pour more money into it, renting a lift berth, winterizing and dewinterizing it, and paying for miscellaneous service to keep it functioning for the half-dozen times I used it over the next twenty-four months. And every voyage was as tiresome and cheerless as the one before.

At last, mercifully, dawned the second greatest day in this boat-owner's life, when, with a rush of exhilaration and a surge of joy, I was able to relieve myself of this floating albatross. I sold it for a pittance, but it was worth every penny lost. And my psychic remuneration more than compensated for any material shortfall, for I found solace in the thought of having served up a double dose of happiness to the proud new owner, the first being his day of purchase and the second, of course, the day he decides he can suffer no more and sells my boat again.