Hayter for April 20, 2025
“Brad and Mark’s walk in the park”
For the first time in years, I’m taking a long walk with no intent of getting anywhere… other than where I started. The last time I remember doing this I was at a track meet. The coach made me a distance runner because my specialty (high jumping) stunk on ice.
But today, Brad Meyer and I are in the process of finishing a good two-mile walk. -- Excuse me a second. – Ah, Brad thinks our walk will only be a mile and a half. He’s never been good with distances. Me? I’ve never been good with time. Yesterday, the Physical Therapy assistant had me pedal the stationary bike for six minutes. That’s what she set it for. But I pedaled that thing for at least 15 minutes. Physical therapists really know how to trick you.
By the way, Brad’s the one who made me come out to the park this morning. I’m fairly sure he’s getting me fit for racquetball. My hip doctor and Brad are the only two adults who think I’ll be able to play racquetball again. My doctor didn’t say I couldn’t, he just didn’t say I could. He registered no hint of caring.
I can’t help but feel sorry for the people in the olden days, who ended up with bad hips and knees. I’d like to see Doc Adams on Gunsmoke replace a hip. And, yes, I think it’s okay to worry about the woes of dead people. It’s sad as all get out to think of the number of people before and during the Civil War who were awake during their operations. The scariest words ever uttered back then were “Okay, y’all hold him down.” – Subject change!
But speaking of my new hip, I have confidence that it has ruined my ability to run due to the issue with my new hip. When I was in junior high, I ran around in circles a lot to get in shape for track meets. I was actually a high jumper, but the coach also made sure that everyone had to run a race during a meet. He chose me to run the half-mile. We called it the 880, because that’s the number of yards in a half mile. I did the math. I don’t think they run in yards anymore. Every distance race is in meters. The 880 race is now the 800 meters, which is five yards short of half a mile. Brad was as impressed with that fact as you are.
I’ve gotta tell you, though, Brad had it much worse than I did. Back in his high school years, he not only ran the 880 but there were hurdles in each lane that each runner had to jump over along the way. That’s running and jumping for two laps around the track. If our school had long-distance hurdle-jumping, I have no memory of it. I imagine if there was such a thing, the coach would’ve entered me in the 880 hurdle jump. Someone would have had to follow me around the track to reset every hurdle I knocked over.
Brad also tossed the shot-put. Truth be told, you don’t toss a shot-put, nor do you shoot it. Why it’s called the shot--put is beyond me. You don’t put the lead ball anywhere. You turn yourself in a circle and then heave the thing. Tossing it would ruin your shoulder and elbow. That was just my guess because Brad didn’t care one way or the other. He just hated having to do it.
I hated having to jog for half a mile. Of
course, you’re not supposed to jog in a race. You’re supposed to run at a lower
speed and then really turn it on near the end. My normal speed was lower speed.
My goal was to not be last. Fortunately, God always allowed there to be at
least one guy slower than me—or I. One of us.
My specialty was the high jump. That’s why I got involved in track. Dennis, my older brother, taught me how to high jump. This was back when you landed in three to six inches of sand after your jump. The highest I ever jumped was five feet four inches. Dennis jumped six feet. And, he was an inch shorter than me! Fortunately, no one in high school back then could jump seven feet. Which is fortunate, because he would’ve broken his neck upon landing in the six-inch pile of sand.
Back at the park, Brad and I plopped down
on a bench after our second and last rest stop. For whatever reason, Brad started
talking about funerals. People do that a lot around me. I must remind them of
the living dead. Brad told me that he doesn’t want a funeral. “Cremate me and
throw my dust to the wind.”
I told him that, if he went before I did, I intended to say something about him at his funeral. I felt safe in saying that because there’s no way I’m going to outlive him--unless he bites the dust during one of our walks. – I’m not sure anyone has ever bitten any dust during a walk. People can come up with some strange sayings.
Well, Brad’s ready to finish the last bit of our hike. During the last stretch, I think I’ll bring up some of the strange sayings from long ago. Take a “cat-o’-nine-tails”. Who came up with that? There is nothing about the plant that could be mistaken for a cat’s tail. Besides that, what feline would have nine tails? They’ll let anybody name stuff. – I’ll let you know what Brad thinks about that--assuming he does. He’s a selective thinker. – Next time.
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