it's still fresh in my mind. The year was 1970-something and the nation had just caught jogging fever. My father, who also became entangled in the pop psychology craze of the day, became an immediate and (briefly) dedicated runner. Every time he donned those blue satin short with gold piping and oh-so-cool Nike jogging shoes, I was right there.
"Can I go? Can I go??"
He would have told me no had it not been for my mother, elbow deep in dinner preparation, who made it clear that I should be allowed to tag along.
And I ran. With my father.
I don't know if he slowed down for me, but I always managed to keep up through the golf course and across the base.
I'd caught the bug. I was a runner.
Tell me about your first time...