The Desert Dual

His name was Alfonzo; I had met him earlier that week. He was brief in height and a shabby cowboy hat sheltered a dark, dilapidated face. An abundant mustache graced his upper lip giving way to a broad, toothy smile. My uncle had told me he was once a runner but his saggy flannel and trousers covered any intimation of an athletic past.

Today was different. He wore crisp, white shorts and shirt and an old baseball cap now perched atop his head. He sported a pair of sun-bleached Asics; red sand covered their once brilliant purple and yellow mesh. Today he looked like a runner.

My uncle is a great fan of athletics and had arranged a race, pitting his unknowing nephew against a wily, Mexican gardener.

“Buenos Dias,” I said in wobbly Mexican ascent. He smiled and pointed toward the sandy mountains on the horizon.

“Vamos,” he said and we trotted off down the cobble path.

The pace was casual; we clipped along shoulder to shoulder. I expired the six Spanish words I had retained from eighth grade while he continued to ramble and point in fit of spanglish charades.

Eventually, we came to a gate. He stopped abruptly and began to stretch. I followed, leaning into my hamstrings, which were strung taught from the previous week of running. Shortly after, he began a series of wind sprints and deliberate, heavy breathing. At hat point, I began to question the nature of this “run.” This sandy desert road had transformed into a starting line. The race was on.

We both strolled up to the gate, I looked at my watch; he looked at his. He nodded, paused briefly and took off like a bullet. I staggered a bit but quickly closed the gap he had put into me. The afternoon sun blazed down on us as we bolted down on old, jeep trail into the mountains.

Instantly, I felt slighted. Like a tiny roadrunner, he hopped from rock to rock, barreling between scrub brush and cactus plants. He was made for this; his light frame floated on the supple ground. I, on the other hand, was big and bulky, sinking into the soft sand like a fat feral pig. My quads looked like holiday hams, thrusting forward greasily with each step. My feet pounded thunderously on the uneven ground. He was the coyote and I was dinner….

To be continued