anti:freeze

I. The track at my elementary school was painted on the grass.

Every spring, Mr. _____ emerged from the gymnasium pushing a man-powered lawn sprayer, chomping a hard wad of gum (as always), and smirking (as always). He was enormous - at least seven feet tall - with bulging biceps, a permanently twisted mouth, and a blonde bowl haircut that skimmed the top of his ears. A cross between Pete Rose, a German military officer, and a cartoon superhero. The scene would have been funny - his massive, action-hero body stooped over a toy-sized machine - if we didn't know what was coming. The painting of the track meant only one thing: gym class was about to get brutal.

We all remembered the time Mr. ______ pushed a third-grader into a brick wall, calling him names, threatening to fail him - all because the kid collapsed after a race. (Never mind he was diabetic, and his blood sugar had plummeted dangerously low.)

Or the time he forced me to run extra laps because I dared present a doctor's note excusing me from activity for the day. (I was recovering from a lung infection.)

I used to love the idea of track lanes washing away in the rain. Or blades of grass trimmed shorter and shorter, until only the tips were still white: dyed hair with the roots showing. Later, I thought Mr. ________ must have loved the power of impermanent paint, measuring lengths and dividing lanes to his own mean specifications. Changing them season after season. (Now, I understand the power inherent in strict standards of measurement, precision the body can never match. I bet that track was exactly the same every year.)

I grew up to become a serious runner. Every time I ran past the elementary school playground, I was tempted to dart across the grass and look for the faded paint. But I resisted. I was running outside the lines, and I loved it.