The Hurache Boys weren’t particularly political by nature. Running shoes have a limited world view, and no matter which direction the winds of democracy shift, they tend to get stepped on.

Besides, Mister Pants’ guy was up by 20 points in the last poll, and the vermin hung heavy in the air, a good enough reason to DNF a primary.

But still.

Mister Pants hadn’t missed a presidential vote since that time he helped Truman beat Dewey, his first experience with a proper newspaper head bust. it would not be his last.

The line at the voting emporium was short but earnest, and the list of candidates was long but outdated, a reminder of not so long ago when the candidates wouldn’t fit on one stage. Those were exciting times. Exotic groups like “minorities” and “women” were seen as viable alternatives. In the end, of course, it came down to two old white guys. Oh, well. Whatever it takes to bring down Salazar, he sighed.

Mail-in ballot? Not for Mister Pants. There’s something about that line, those people, the “I VOTED” sticker on the way out, that makes it all seem a little less futile. The Hurache Boys didn’t understand, but what do you expect for a crummy 180 bucks. Time to fly, indeed.

Mister Pants marked his candidate, slid the ballot into the box, took a big swig from the Purell bottle on the table, and headed out for Tempo Tuesday, an Uncle Hal 30-minute jaunt.

He wondered how this all would end. His retirement, his savings, his health, his country, his world, season two of Virgin River. Mostly that last one. He wondered why tempo is called tempo. He wondered what was taking Ernie Pook so long to arrive.

That’s  the best thing about running, he thought. Miles and miles to wonder, to imagine, to exist, just to be.

He got back in the car, drank a shot from the little Purell flask in the console, and drove off into the unknown while the Hurcache Boys slept contentedly in the back. They didn’t understand the importance of a little guy climbing up on a soapbox to scream FUCK YOU, SALAZAR. But Ernie would be here soon enough. Mister Pants could wait.

America needs you, Harry Truman. Harry, could you please come home?

But maybe being your own Purell.