forty-five/fifty-two

I'll admit I picked up The Memory of Running mostly because of Stephen King's column on it. Back when it was only available as an audiobook, he wrote this glowing review about the writing and about how Smithy was one of the most memorable and original characters ever, etc., etc. He made the book sound really good, is what I'm saying.

I forgot about it for a little while then saw it on a list somewhere of good summer reads or something, and remembered King's enthusiasm, so I reserved it at the library. There was actually a waiting list, which is usually a good sign.

So the wee hours of this morning found me finishing Ron McLarty's The Memory of Running. It was good. I almost couldn't believe how good it was. It's the story of Smithy, this enormous guy who decides -- or it's kind of decided for him, really -- to go on a long cross-country bike ride. So there are a lot of mini-adventures there. It's also his sister's story, and that part of it is pretty sad. Once again I've made a book sound much lamer than it is, but it's written very well, and Smithy is the best kind of Everyman, accessible and mostly likeable without being cloying. And the story just flows from page to page, there are no slow parts.

So thank you, Mr. King. One day I'll read one of your books, too.