It is the first Sunday in November, about the 13th mile. My friend TRay, wearing brand new sneakers in his maiden marathon, has blistesr on both feet the size of nickels. (By the end of the race, inflation takes over, and these things swell to size of half dollars.) We struggle a run-jog-walk through Queens, desperate to escape the distant accordion sounds, as a blind runner blazes past TRay’s shoulder. Exasperated and looking for some motivation to keep going, TRay promises, “if the guy with one leg passes us, I’m gonna drop out.” Within seconds, the man with one leg of steel blurs passed us.
The CHHS cross-country team practiced like a pack of wolves. The long run was always Saturday, where coach T. Grey would dump us on some back PA road and tell us we had to run our way back to the van. It was suppose to be ten miles, but he’d always push the halfway point back a mile or two to get the extra distance in without complaint. We knew it, of course, and just to prove that we could run any distance he would throw at us, the pack would run the last couple miles in sync, chanting “Molson …Golden… Ale..eh!”
Molson Golden Ale was the distinguished beer of choice for the senior class. We had graduated from Colt45, Miller, Budweiser and the trainer assortment to make a choice for quality…and an import from Canada too.
For it’s time, quite a brew, because this beer had…and still has…flavor, although the sweetness of my youth is perhaps a little overpowering. Molson Golden (its beer on the label now, no longer an ale) has a clean crispness, a hint of tart (not bitter) too, that makes this more like the beer that you wished Miller or Bud to be. Molson Golden Ale eh!
Rating: 80%, after the long run