22

Back in college days, Ed wanted to get on the lacrosse team so he decided to go with me on my nightly run up the hill and back. We needed something to chant in that pseudo-military, male tribal sort of way, so we used this from a Kurt Vonnegut novel:

I got the clap
and the blue balls too!
The clap don't hurt
but the blue balls do!

Possibly on account of this shouting, a campus police car pulled up along side us as we were coming back down the hill off of our run. The officer didn't say anything, or shine any lights or indicate that we were in trouble, he just coasted along with us. It was dark and we couldn't see him, just the car. Ed decided that we should run faster. Not by way of escape (we could have cut down hill through the brush for that), but I guess as a display.

So there we were, running flat out on a downhill, for about 100 yards. As we began to slow from our sprint, the officer's voice quietly said: "I clock you at 22 miles per hour," and then he drove off into the darkness.

We weren't even 22 years old yet.

Non-sequitor bonus link.

Boy chasing update: After dinner I played chase with my son and managed to stay ahead of him. I may have even gained ground. Then I chased him pretty well, though I caught him by trickery. This is the same course on which he was able to catch me last month. So maybe I am having a good day. Then I tried chasing him barefoot, thinking it would improve my traction and thus cornering speed. But the bare bones banging on the floor hurt, and the left big toe kept catching on the ground, and if I had continued I would have curled it under and hurt myself. So the overall result was encouraging, though.