Track Meet

I had met a lot of hippies. I grew up in Boulder. But I had never met one my own age. Ken was working on the shoulder-length hair way back in seventh grade, and started growing a beard by the end of eighth. It took us only a few months to get to know each other - we connected over Monty Python originally, then bonded firmly via a mutual adoration of "Jesus Christ Superstar." Ken liked the idea of playing Jesus, and he called me Herod. "So if you are the Christ, the Great Jesus Christ, prove to me that you're no fool - walk across my swimming pool." He drifted toward musical theater, I was in band. We needed each other for comic relief during our tormented early adolescence.
By ninth grade, I had made some effort to sublimate my band experience by going out for sports. I was on the middleweight football team, the wrestling team, and the track team. I tried hard to fit into the jock scene. I was surprised to see Ken show up for the first track practice of the year. A friend had talked him into running middle distance. We had apparently arrived, in ninth grade, at the same conclusion: girls might notice you if you went out for sports.
Near the end of the first practice, we were lined up in pairs to run 440 yards for time. Ken and I ended up near the end. We waited our turn, then stepped up to the line. I was in the A lane, he was in the B. Coach Straight (his real name) hollered at us to go. Off we went - once around the quarter mile track. Ken was lanky and had a longer stride from the start. I chugged along in my best tortoise fashion, and had pulled back even with him at the halfway mark. As I started to pull away, I could hear Ken exerting himself - a sound we were probably both unfamiliar with. On the straightaway, I increased my lead. There were a few hoots and shouts of encouragement. I was winning a race. I pushed myself still harder until I heard Ken calling from behind me, "Caven, don't beat me!" If he had been any closer, I would have lost the race by falling down laughing. When I crossed the finish line, I looked back and watched Ken labor through the last twenty yards.
Ken stayed on the team for the rest of the spring, though he never had a race. I was the backup shot put and discus thrower. I got to compete at two meets and was solidly trounced by all the other schools, including a guy who grew up to be an offensive lineman for the Indianapolis Colts.
When we got to high school, Ken and I stuck to theater and band. We didn't go out for sports because we knew that the winnowing process had begun in junior high. We weren't Jock Material. We kept our friendship - though he began to refer to himself as King of the Scots rather than the Jews. I wasn't sure what to make of that, since he still referred to me periodically as Herod. Maybe it was because of that race.