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A Road Runner's Bonanza, or, Has Anybody Seen Kelley?
Hal Higdon
September 05, 1966
'Let's spend our vacation in New England,' said the author, whose motives were ulterior. While the family rode the Ferris wheel he would run mad races and win Good Prizes and Top Trophies. He might even meet stiff competition, if spectral Johnny should ever materialize A Road Runner's Bonanza, or, Has Anybody Seen Kelley?
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September 05, 1966

A Road Runner's Bonanza, Or, Has Anybody Seen Kelley?

'Let's spend our vacation in New England,' said the author, whose motives were ulterior. While the family rode the Ferris wheel he would run mad races and win Good Prizes and Top Trophies. He might even meet stiff competition, if spectral Johnny should ever materialize A Road Runner's Bonanza, or, Has Anybody Seen Kelley?

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"The old course was 7�. This one's closer to eight."

"Where is our next race?" Rose asked as we drove back to the Cape.

"Not Ware," I joculared. "It's Holden."

"Let's not," she moaned, "start that again."

But between Ware and Holden was a week on Cape Cod. Our cottage stood only 48 seconds, as the sprinter flies, from Massachusetts Bay. The beach was rockier and the water colder than back home in Indiana, and 3-year-old Laura said, "The water has sugar in it." So much for swimming. Once during the week we visited Hyannis and, in an act of valor unparalleled in the history of American tourism, made no effort to invade the Kennedy compound. Another day we visited Plymouth and approached an impressive pavilion. Kevin seemed sufficiently awed until we looked inside and he saw it was only a rock. So much for history.

I casually mentioned my Mayflower ancestry to Stu Adams when I worked out with him later that day. Politely he inquired who the ancestor might be, and my chest swelled with pride as I answered, "George Soule."

"Is that right?" replied Stu. "He's one of our ancestors, too. We have seven Mayflower ancestors, you know." Scratch genealogy.

Most afternoons while I was on the Cape I ran with Stuart along the Cape Cod Canal. The prevailing winds made outward passage difficult but would push us on our return home. Stu would shout apologies for his slowness and invite me to run on ahead alone. Meanwhile I would be running so hard trying to match his pace that I could not answer back and would finally crumple on his lawn with my eyes blanked out like Little Orphan Annie's. One afternoon I spotted another figure running along the opposite bank of the canal. "That's Mike Bigelow," said Stu and explained that Bigelow, another B.A.A. marathoner, lived at the other end of the canal and on the opposite shore. While Stu ran in one direction, Mike chugged in the other. They would pass like ships in the night with only an occasional shouted hello serving as a link between them.

That Saturday we found Holden (about 40 miles west of Boston) without difficulty. So, unfortunately, did Buschman. I knew I would have difficulty beating Ralph on conditioning, but perhaps I could beat him by wile. "I know now why you had stomach cramps in your last race," I told Buschman when I greeted him at the starting line.

"Why's that?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

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