It started nine years ago, this annual gathering of guys with two things in common:  thirty years ago all of us were runners, and thirty years ago all of us were students at the same liberal arts college.  Most of us graduated from that school; many of us still run.  But each of us has elected to return every spring to that sleepy central Pennsylvania town to renew old ties; to step back three decades, if only for a few days, to touch a time when we were young and strong and fast and free.

We gather at the old watering hole and nurse a few beers over lengthy discussions of distant races and past records now faded with the passage of time but nonetheless still sharply etched in our collective memory.  We share stories of youthful pranks, times when we were found out, times when we got away scott-free by the skin of our teeth.  On a whim, we make a midnight trek to the Petersburg Tavern, surprising the local crowd, most of whom weren't yet born when we sojourned here.  Back at the motel, on keyboard and guitars we jam until 2:00 AM, singing songs of the sixties and seventies:  Route 66, I'll Never Dance With Another, Mr. Bojangles.

The following morning we banter with the waitress at Grubb's Diner over breakfast and more stories:  steak-and-egg training meals that left you sick to your stomach, heavy training jerseys that rubbed you sore, the annual raft regatta, late night excursions to Kathy's Bar.

We stroll through the campus, stopping in at the student union building, pointing out our former post office box numbers in the basement; checking out the latest publications at the book store and the trophies and black-and-white photographs on display in the lobby of the sports complex, a modification of the old gymnasium, where we used to dress for practice and shower up afterwards.  We saunter by the old dormitories and peer up at certain windows, mentally marking where we lived for a season long ago.  Cloister is still there, boasting its brick archway, stormed annually by the incoming freshman attempting to break through the mass of upper classmen.  Founders Hall, Oler Hall, the former science center, and the library remain largely unchanged; although the Women's Gym is gone, replaced by a massive new science complex.  Still, it doesn't take much to jog the memories.

We suit up in an eclectic array of running shorts and shoes, striking out to explore Flagpole Hill, Lion's Back, the Goat Path, or the Power lines, searching for the ancient cross country course trail and finding only remnants.  Petersburg Road is still Petersburg Road; Cold Springs and Warm Springs retain their nomenclature.  We retrace our former footsteps; we push up Sure Kill Hill to Taylor Highlands, breathless now at the top, as a mournful train whistle rises from the river valley below.

Later we gather at the Mitchell's house up by the cliffs for a traditional ham dinner.  This year there's ice cream and cake.  The inscription reads:  "Like fine wine, runners improve with age."  We eat and drink and laugh at the stories, embellished with each retelling.  Later, several young Juniata students join us, spent from their afternoon track and field performance at another college.  Like us, they tell their tales; like us, they make their own music and sing.  Some day, like us, they too will grow up and find their way in the world.  And perhaps, like us, the lucky ones one day will feel a tug at their sleeves, a small voice beckoning them to return to the time of their youth, if only for a few hours; to gather in this special place that has touched us deeply in ways so profound that we can scarcely put them into words.

I headed out early Sunday morning, feeling the call of family obligations and responsibilities back home.  The redbud trees were in full bloom along Route 22.  I drove east past freshly limed fields, some already ploughed, some sporting new carpets of green alfalfa and yellow wildflowers.  High on the mountains the red maples were beginning to leaf out.  Although low-lying clouds obscured the tops, the mist was rising.  Across the muddy river, racing past turbulent flood waters brought on by recent spring rains, a train moved steadily along the far bank, heading west, back toward Huntingdon.