the cement truck's running

The forms are set. I'm in my rubber boots. I'm holding my rake. Time to pour.

I remember the urgency, the pressure, the joy and the terror of pouring cement. The truck is running. Dad bought the concrete whether it gets used or not. Time to go. Keep the feet moving. Grab the shovel, the rake. Push. Move. Work the 2x4. Keeping moving. You have to keep up the effort until it's done or all your effort is for nothing or worse. You can't rest. There's no time out. No moment to check out. The cement won't wait. And it won't hurry. It moves at it's pace. It cures when it's ready.

The weather Saturday morning is supposed to be perfect. Starting out at 42 degrees at the start and rising about 10 degrees over the course of the race. I'm ready. Time to move.