"I'm, a, machine...I'm, a, machine."
The rhythmic crunch of white pea gravel sticks in your dad's head, and sticks in the grooves of his running shoes. His Old Navy neckline is darkening with sweat, New Balance sneakers curving up at the toes, Nike logo shorts creeping up where his thighs jog together.
"Left. Left. Left, right, left."
Those internal chants used to work. Back before college. Back before Xbox. Back before the turn of the century. Your dad never liked running in the military. But the only thing your dad disliked more than running was being bad at running. So he ran.
"Grandma and grandpa laying in bed. Grandma rolled over and this is what she said..."
Your dad will save that one for later. For now, as he chugs around the elementary school track, head down, eyes squinting to blur the distance, he pictures himself as a videogame avatar, a digital representation of himself, a representation that doesn't feel soreness, doesn't experience fatigue, and runs at the consistent speed of someone pressing the up arrow on a keyboard.
"I'm, a, machine...I'm, a, machine."
