My son and I stand in the driveway on this warm May evening – 10 weeks into coronavirus isolation. It’s fully dark, with the thinnest crescent moon rising. Suddenly, he bursts down the sidewalk yelling, “Come on Dad! Let’s race!”

No starter pistol. No countdown. Nothing. He may be nine and a half years old with boundless energy and a head start, but I have longer legs. Still, the gears are grinding. I no longer glide when I sprint; it’s more of a determined, lumbering gallop. But I narrow the gap, heaving hard, both of us laughing as he hears my footsteps gaining on him. Past the neighbors’ houses – most of which have gone lights-out for the night – we run and run and run. Without a finish line, though, it eventually feels pointless. We both give up and downshift to a walk.

As we wander through the neighborhood, he pulls on my arm like it’s a bungee cord, and we watch our streetlight shadows. He tells me about his favorite video game. I stay interested, but on this topic, I’m no substitute for one of his peers. While I’ve stayed plenty busy and connected through the “Safer at Home” order and beyond, this kid needs to be back on the playground with his recess buddies. Earlier in the day, he was upset that COVID-19 could ruin his birthday. I couldn’t guarantee that it wouldn’t. In a fit of anger the week before, fed up with the endless isolation from his school friends, he gritted his teeth and muttered, “The coronavirus is a frickin’ b-word!” It is. But walking out here with the neighborhood to ourselves, I’m happy to see his spirits up.

Eventually, we loop back. We’re two blocks from home when he runs off and yells, “Let’s race home!” Left in his wake, I sprint to catch up. The trouble isn’t merely that he’s getting faster every year, but that I’m getting slower. With our trajectories heading in opposite directions, I see no need to give him fake moral victories. He’ll beat me soon enough.

I do my best to extend my legs and find my old higher gear. Again, my clomping stride lets him know I’m gaining ground. Again, we battle both laughter and fatigue. Again, it’s my long rusty legs verses his small, well-oiled machine. Place your bets. We go from streetlight to darkness to streetlight, and I’m getting closer. Unlike last time, this race is finite – motivating us to stretch our legs and lungs to their limits. Our hearts pound like our footsteps. I gallop alongside him, painstakingly pull past him, and beat him to the driveway by a couple of steps.

We both walk in circles on the pavement, temporarily breathless.

Suddenly, he sprints toward the house. “We were racing to the door!” he yells back.

Though my tank is empty, I catch up and nearly pass him. Nearly. He lunges – eclipsing me – and reaches the doorknob first. Heading inside, we laugh with what’s left of our breath, as if there was nothing lost.

Ken Szymanski is the current Eau Claire Writer in Residence. He works, writes, and lives in this town, along with his wife and two sons. For more on Ken, visit kenszymanski.com.