They were running fifth and sixth, while one of the runners cut a blistering pace in first place. The race was two laps around the track and a little extra, and halfway through the first lap, the blond grunted to Remo, "Let's see how good you are, Gramps." He increased his speed, intending to zip by Remo, but Remo kept one step ahead of him, running easily. He felt cinders off the track kick up against his chinoed legs and the breeze in his face was cool and sweet. He liked running, he decided.

As they finished the first lap, the pacesetter began to tire. Remo and his blond shadow moved up and were now running third and fourth. They held that position until they were halfway around the track in the final lap. The blond grunted again, "Time to let it all hang out. See you, Pops."

He went into a kick, lengthened his stride and stepped up the speed of his step. Remo responded by finally taking his hands out of his pockets, and the blond saw Remo, still there, still one step ahead of him. He pushed harder but he could not make up that one step. Two runners passed them. Remo could

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hear the blond's breath begin to come in short, sharp little bursts.

Now what would he do if this bumpkin quit cold on him? They were coming around the final turn now for the backstretch. Remo closed the few inches that separated them and clamped his right hand on the blond man's left wrist, then began to run faster, pulling the other man with him. They had faded to fifth and sixth and Remo, with the blond now hi tow, stepped up his speed. As they neared the finish line, he kicked in the afterburners, moving up into third place and towing the collapsing blond along into fourth. As they crossed the line, Remo let go of the younger man's wrist and the blond, who had not controlled his own forward motions for the last 100 yards, went sprawling forward on his face, tumbling forward, rolling over until he came to a stop. He lay there, unable to move, trying to catch his breath. His legs felt leaden; his lungs sucked acid and exhaled fire.