The great snail race of Moses Lake

I recently challenged a co-worker to a race to a mutual destination.

But anyone can speed through town, and besides, speeding is dangerous. Moreover, it's so overdone to the point it has become a cliche.

So I offered what I hope is a unique twist on the whole arrangement: A slow race. Last one to get there, wins.

It's infinitely safer and, in the proper hands, can become something of epic legend. Years from now, they'll still be talking about "The Great Snail Race of Moses Lake," estimated to have taken place in the late 2000s to the early 2020s by future historians.

We both started at the same time. I noticed my windshield could have been better cleaned, so rather than start my engines, I set about doing that, only to notice my opponent had paused to tie his shoe. When he was done with that, he started in on the other one, muttering something about bunny ears and rabbits going down holes.

After we both watched a V of flying geese pass go honking by overhead, we finally decided we better get on the move.

I waited until my rival had driven off to decide the motor had run for long enough, and put the car into drive as well.

My rival, far too much a pro at this point, pulled the ol' "Oops, I pulled into the wrong lane and now I have to try and get over in the middle of a busy lane" trick as I glowered and shook my fist as I passed him.

But then on the highway, my going a hair under the speed limit seemed to irritate him, so he pulled ahead of me, laughing with awe as I feigned a yawn, so sleepy as he passed. His glee turned to shock as I pulled into the nearest drive through to purchase a cup of coffee, a trick only the masters can pull off without looking foolish.

Then we both paused to let a little old lady cross the street ahead of us. Where normally we would have been impatient, we both sat back in our seats and urged to take her time, not to worry about a thing, and to lie down in the middle of the crosswalk and take a nap if she needed.

Not necessary, she assured us, and we were on our way, although my rival went a little faster, since I was too busy pretending to be distracted by the sight of an attractive female jogger to get going right away.

And all the traffic congestion on the Alder Street crossing - usually the source of some annoyance - worked in our favor today, as we both tried to go well within the speed limit, but not in any big rush.

In the end, our cars pulled into the parking lot at the same time, and it was back to the usual shenanigans.

Despite the accusations of my rival, I wasn't pulling a cheap copycat maneuver; my boot lace genuinely had come untied.

After a few moments of shooting the breeze laced with the tension only a spirited competition can bring, we walked in, shoulder to shoulder, still remarkably on time, and I turned to my colleague, my rival and friend, and said, "A tie would be noble."

"A tie?" he said, aghast, no doubt reacting to the negative reputation ties seem to have generated in the competitive athletics market. Then he no doubt remembered my propensity for tears if I lose, and then my annoying guilty attempts to overcompensate if I win, and decided he was better off in the long run if we sat down at the table together.

So we did, and our day continued as though we hadn't just gone through one of the most exciting events of our lives.

- Matthew Weaver freely admits to some embellishment of the true story of his recent slow race. He won't tell the future historians who study this Odyssey-sized epic tale of heroism and bravado if you won't.