Born To Run

If there was a soundtrack to my childhood, Bruce Springsteen would have a spot or two on there. Whether it was hearing "DOWN - IN - JUNGLE - LAND!" from the basement in Esworthy when Dad and Joe were lifting, or "Glory Days" blaring from some radio when Dad was cleaning his bike outside in the summer, the Boss was in the background of some of the simplest, some of the best times I can recall. And now, no matter where I am, I hear the old Springsteen, the young one with a voice as hard to ignore as Clarence Clemons' saxophone, and I think of Dad. It's not one image or moment in particular, but just a feeling, a slideshow of sorts. Barbecues, acres of fresh-cut grass, driving with the windows down, afternoon...

On Saturday, he rang through my headphones as I was running around a 400-meter rubber circle, trying to complete sixteen laps in under twenty-four minutes. A rather pointless thing when you think about it. But, I was doing it nonetheless, and about seven or eight minutes into it, "Born to Run" started -- the drums first, then the simple guitar, his raspy voice, his plea to Wendy: "will you walk with me out on the wire?" -- it was one of those countless moments that happen during months of training -- where you crack a smile when you should be grimacing, and you keep going until the grimace eventually returns to your face, and you could never really explain to anyone why you were smiling in the first place, because it doesn't make sense.

But to me, it does make sense. Especially that song. Especially with Dad.

Do I have to say it?

He was born to run.