by Rob Perez
Syndicated Columnist

I vacation in a land where chickens roam free. They wander the streets. They patrol the sidewalks. They gather, with purpose, around trash cans. And every now and then, one goes for it.

A chicken—big enough or smart enough to know there’s food in there—flies up and into the trash. After a moment, he emerges with something in his beak. Something meaningful. Something he can eat.

The only problem is: the morsel is too big.

But he grabs it and runs nonetheless. As fast and far as he can. Alas, it is neither fast nor far. The Sprinter is immediately flanked by others eager for a taste. Or, should the opportunity present itself, the whole enchilada.

Those in pursuit are an impatient bunch. They even peck at the morsel while The Sprinter sprints. While they sprint. The thing—half a hot dog bun—is still in his mouth. Yet it’s being eaten from either side. This seems like it would be bad for digestion, but they don’t notice.

As everyone knows, a chicken with something big in his mouth has lost a step. So the plan—to run somewhere quiet and enjoy it alone—is really more of a pipe dream than a possibility.

The morsel is not long for this world.

Eventually, The Sprinter drops it. Not because he wants to—but because it’s hard to run with something big in your mouth. The Sprinter eats what he can.

Bobbing it down— a chicken doesn’t chew, because it doesn’t have teeth—a slightly smaller chicken—we’ll call him the Random Runner—comes around, grabs the smaller piece and, well, runs—randomly.

And now that chicken is The Chicken.

That smaller piece changes hands one or two more times. Until finally—there’s nothing left to fight over. So the gang gathers back around the trash and waits for someone new.

Feeling very superior, I watched this play out a few times, until I realized I wasn’t studying the chicken. I was studying myself. What is this column? It’s just a couple of old ideas—reheated. Leftovers, really. With mustard: Pickleball is dumb!

We’ve been nourishing ourselves on that half-eaten bun for years. All I’ve really done is jump into the trash, grab it, leap out—and run!

Readers run alongside me. They peck at it. They take their bites while it’s still in my mouth: No, pickleball is great!

I encourage them not to talk with their mouths full. They point out my mouth is also full. I keep running.

It’s not even a full idea. It’s half-eaten. And there’s a little relish on it. So now we’re fighting over an even smaller piece of white bread. I’m not sure there’s nourishment here. Yet I bob my head up and down, trying to get something in the system before I lose it. Because, and I believe it was Socrates who said it first: He who runs with food in his mouth will not run for long.

Eventually, someone faster comes along, grabs what’s left, and runs off. And now they’re The Chicken.

That’s when I realized maybe the trick isn’t finding something valuable, but holding onto it long enough to call it yours. That—and being able to run.