The Hill

When I was younger, my dad and I used to run five hot miles down Longs Pond Road to the country club’s pool. The route had no sidewalk, so we’d forge our own path through the tall grass on the road’s shoulder. It was a daily routine for the two of us, all summer long, his way of imparting his love for running onto me. It was an act of love, even if the ninety degree heat made that hard to believe in the moment.

At the end of Longs Pond stood the Hill, the last bastion between the ninety degree heat and the sweet release of the pool water and the ice cream I’d inevitably get bought as a congratulations. It started at the bridge over the creek before snaking almost a quarter mile upwards past the wood paneled house and finally giving out and going flat at the intersection. The Hill was my enemy. I would have chosen to walk it every day were it not for my dad.

He made it a tradition to race the whole way up the Hill, commentating the whole time about the final sprint of the upcoming olympic marathon. He would surge ahead, passing the wood paneled house with strides that doubled mine. Just when it looked like I’d lose, he’d slow down enough for me to sneak past, describing the crowd cheering as the favorite runners surged to the front to take gold. We would both forget the pain in our legs, leaving the world behind for a moment to compete in our own little olympics.

Those summer days were postcard perfect, even with the flies buzzing up and down our arms, even when the weatherman advised that people stay inside and when the dogs sat under the shade of the nearest available porches, panting. I can still remember the smell of afternoon storms at four o’clock sharp, the way our rusty Ford Galaxy would puff clouds of smoke when we started it up cold before cruising to the drive in theater.

But then it was freshman year, the year I kissed my first girl and grew three inches in just as many months. My highschool was predicted to go all the way to the state championship in cross country for the first time since I’d been born, which meant miles upon miles of preparatory summer running. Longs Pond Road, six times a week. Sometimes seven.

It was that summer when I saw my dad’s strategy, his careful and planned slowness with just enough time for me to pass for the win. I was getting to the age where I understood things like ego and pride for the first time, and the taste of them was just as addicting as the M-rated films my parents were starting to let me watch. I was getting to the age where I wanted to pass my dad all on my own, no training wheels or handout victories.

I took my shot one day in August, the hottest of the year. As soon as we crossed the bridge I was going, charging up The Hill with the newfound strength of rapidly approaching adulthood. I didn’t even wait for the gun to go off, didn’t wait for the usual olympic commentary. Blood roared in my ears. I saw the intersection. It would be all or nothing. My father was close on my heels, I knew it. I counted down the meters left, thirty, twenty, ten. 

I got there first. I stopped, hands planted firmly on my hips, catching my breath. I waited for a second, then another, but the other pair of footsteps never came. When I glanced back down the hill I saw a man, nearing his fifties with streaks of gray beginning to poke through, red faced and doubled over.

“You really got me that time,” he whispered, once I’d jogged down to him, “how about we get some ice cream?”

He seemed so proud and so defeated in that moment, so alive and yet so old. He hugged me right then and there, sharing the kind of sacred embrace that men only give eachother once or twice in their lifetimes, not counting funerals.

The team didn’t win the state meet that year, or any of the years after, and the icecream never tasted quite as sweet. I kissed the same girl again, then a different one, then another, and the Longs Pond Road out to the country club became a run I’d do on the days when I had to take it easy. I got into trouble, wised up, made friends, lost friends, moved out to college, and here I am today, still running, still thinking about my dad and those hot summer days that felt like they’d last forever.

He’s happily retired now, living a blissful life of travel and charcuterie boards with my mom. It’s the dream for him, but it no longer includes the running that punctuated so much of my childhood. It falls to me to carry on the torch, to lace up my shoes and go out, even when the weatherman says to stay indoors and the dogs duck for shade. 

Owen Harries