Bad Timing

A few weeks ago the 2016 Summer Olympics ended. I watched a good many hours of the TV coverage. Oddly, today I had an Olympic moment. 

I watched the 1964 Olympics with some interest those 52 years ago. I was 13 at the time and I hoped, a future Olympic talent. The events that most intrigued me were the middle distance running events. For some reason I focused on the 800 meter. 

To begin my quest for Olympic Gold, my 13 year-old self first needed to get into superior physical condition. I decided that to measure my weekly improvement, I would perform an initial timed run over a set distance. I decided that it should be a run beginning in front of the family house and circling the suburban block, a distance of perhaps a half mile or a bit more. 

Since I wanted to be timed, I was going to need a watch. I asked my father if I could borrow his Bulova wristwatch and after giving me about a five second analytical stare, he told me that he would go out to the sidewalk and time me himself. That was fine with me. I told him that I was going to need to be timed to the exact second since I knew within a few minutes how long it was going to take me. In other words; a vague approximation was not going to do.

Well, we strolled out to the sidewalk that ran in front of our house and down our street. I took the required anticipatory stance as my father eyed the second hand of his watch. Finally he raised his hand, then abruptly lowered it as he yelled "Go!". Off I went.

Somehow, someway I huffed and puffed my way around the block without stopping. As I came wheezing down the street, the finish line came into sight, but not my father, or his watch. 

I crossed the finish line, gulped a few breaths of air and hurried through our house's front door. There was my father, sitting in his chair watching TV. I rushed up to him and gasp out, "Where were you? I thought you were going to time me?" My dad quickly glanced down to his watch. "Okay, yes, well you finished in about six or seven minutes. Less than eight, I'm sure."

I rolled my eyes, "Dad, I wanted an exact time. I know that I did it in about six or eight minutes. I knew that before I started."

Undeterred, the next evening I was going to get that exact time for my around-the-block run. Once more I asked my father if I could borrow his watch. He sighed and said no, but he would be sure to time me.

Well, once again we meandered out to the sidewalk. Once again my dad eyed his watch as I took my position on the starting line. For the second night in a row, as the second hand hit the watch's 12, my dad barked out "Go!" 

Off I went, down the sidewalk on my quest to circle the block as fast as I could. I had a bit of experience this time and I figured that I would go just a bit slower for most of the distance and then finish with a closing sprint. That's how Olympians did it, I knew.

As I circumvented the block and bolted down the sidewalk with our house about to come into view, I felt sure I was ahead of the pace of the previous day. Then, a hundred yards from the finish, my legs slowed in frustration. My father was not to be seen.

Dad's Boliva

With surprising calm if not short of breath, I walked up onto our front porch and gazed into the front window. There was my father, sitting in his chair, smoking a Pall Mall and watching television.

I plopped onto a lawnchair that was stationed on the porch and accepted the notion that maybe I was not destined to win Olympic Gold. I never said a word, ever, and oddly, neither did my father. It was like the whole ordeal never happened. A few years later, in high school gym class, I ran a decent time in an 800 meters, decent, but not anywhere near world class. My father died 20 years ago and the reason I am writing this blog entry is because as I was searching for a pair of fingernail clippers, I happened to open a desk drawer and there was my dad's watch. Believe it or not, it still keeps perfect time... not that I ever benefited.