Seven Bridges: Part One of a Two Part Tour

The only available outlet in the apartment that seemed to function was between the closet and the stove, loosely mounted to the wall above the counter. This is not a commentary on the accommodations, they were just as lovely as I had expected; the photos hadn’t lied. I’d left my laptop charging there in the kitchen overnight with the hope that I might get an hour or so of life out of it during the flight home. The new battery was only slightly more inclined to hold a charge than the original, which had become completely useless a couple of years ago. The computer was also my only link to the correct time; information that usually is of little concern to me but this morning would be somewhat critical.

Darkness still prevailed when I woke, although the glow of the city never really allowed it to take over completely. The orange of the streetlights reflecting off the dense cloud cover was no different than anything I’d experienced in any other major city. After my visit to the kitchen and a brief calculation, I decided that it was just after seven. The screen had read a little past one, the time difference being an even six hours. I thought I should really get moving. I lay back down on the fold out couch for a few minutes and thought about the irony of the sleeping arrangements as I stared out through the tall glass panes of the window that I had closed sometime during the night. I’d woken up briefly when a chilly wind had made its way into the room. A fold out couch that was very distant from here had been my bed for the past year since I’d left my family for the third and final time, although this one was decidedly more comfortable.

The screaming cats had woken me before dawn, the cats and what I imagine I perceived to be a hint of the sky changing from the grayish-yellow of the evening to the cool blue of a morning flirting with sunrise. I had hoped to be out on the street by dawn but I knew by the time I was ready that the moment had passed me by.

It wasn’t more than another five minutes or so before I was up and changed. I’d slept in my clothes as there were four of us sharing the flat and little privacy was to be had. Before making my way to the door I checked the map one last time. Rather than turn on a light that might disturb the others, I leaned out of the window and planned my route in the glow of anticipation; at least the first six or seven blocks that would take me to the rivers edge, the banks of the Fiume Tevere. After that I would let the city guide me.

I closed the door as quietly as I could until I heard the tongue snap into place and then descended the two flights of marble stairs that surrounded the tiny elevator, passed through the tall, yellow glass doors that led to the foyer, and made my way to the street.
I did a little stretching in the courtyard between the ivy covered, black iron gate and the massive exterior oak doors and then began my walk down the hill. Initially, it was the same route that the six of us had taken the night before in search of a recommended restaurant, but after a few blocks I took a right towards the river, rather than the left that would have taken me back into Trastevere.

Two blocks into my personal tour I broke into a jog and the spot just above my right knee began to burn, as it has been known to do from time to time. I ignored it. Nothing was going to interfere with this day. I would just have to work through the pain.
After crossing the main thoroughfare where the green, number eight trams seem to pass ceaselessly in both directions, I moved along a series of winding, cobblestone streets, settling in between the unused, partially paved over, tracks of former public transportation. The river was near, and as I approached it a flea market was in its inception in a small lot off to my right. Tiny cars were being unloaded onto tables that were sheltered by those all too familiar pop-up tents. It was a Sunday morning and most of the city still slept as the sun rose slowly and the rain slowed as the clouds began to thin. It hadn’t started until I’d reached the outer doors of the apartment building. I’d heard the leaves reacting to what I considered an obvious but unnecessarily violent assault by the tiny droplets that fell from the sky.

I took a left just beyond the market, crossed the foot of one of the many bridges and headed along the river. The sidewalk and the roadway were well above the water’s surface so I followed the fist ramp that would bring me closer to the lethargic, green soup, where black birds with gray wings circled and dove for prey.
After passing under the sculpted arches of the next bridge, I felt a little deprived as all of the antiquity lay out of sight beyond the tops of the ancient walls that corralled the current, although the colorful graffiti in another language did hold a modest amount of interest. A long flight of stairs just before the third would take me back to street level. A slight drizzle continued to fall but the sidewalk was dry, sheltered by the leaves of the sycamores that lined the avenue, similar in many ways to Riverside Park in Manhattan, although very different in feel. The foliage in general struck me as not being dramatically different from that of New York, with the exception of the thick, textured trunks and the feathery branches of the many palms that sprouted unexpectedly from Rome’s sidewalks and gardens.

I decided to continue along above the water until the fourth bridge, or Ponte, as they are known here, and then I would cross and find my way into the oldest part of the city. It wasn’t meant to be. The bridges were not all that far apart and from the foot of the fourth, the fifth was plainly visible. Until now they had been relatively unadorned outside of carved balustrades, mostly limestone, I think. This next one was obviously of great importance, decorated with elaborate sculptures of intertwined figures that had been eroded by the passing centuries, with the stone pitted and serrated.
From the fifth, the sixth caught my attention, not quite as elaborate but equally adorned. A row of stalls was set up along the wall between the next two crossings. Green, tambour topped display cases that supported shallow awnings above them lined the sidewalk. There were dozens, all identical, and all yet to be opened for business. A lone vendor swept the damp, fallen leaves from the path that remained. This had to be a major tourist destination, no different from Fifth Avenue south of the Metropolitan Museum where everything from watches to postcards can be had. I would not discover today what was peddled from these shallow trays.

A massive, obviously ancient, stone structure loomed to my left. Curved, marble stairs led to enormous statues on tall plinths. Carved relief was everywhere on the ornately rendered façade and a cornice protruded far enough from the roof to be considered cantilevered. I crossed the street to investigate further. In the center, letters were carved into the stone blocks above an arched doorway. The only ones that made any sense to me spelled out the word “Tribunali”. It was impossible for me to take in the whole of this building, the din of the sculpted mass being nearly deafening.

The seventh would be the bridge to cross. I thought Saint Peter’s was in sight but realized that the domes I was heading for were on the wrong side of the river, and there were two. I’d contemplated running through the Vatican’s plaza but decided that I would forgo the well-traveled landmarks in favor of the neighborhoods and the mundane which turned out to be anything but. We’d gotten a bit of a tour from the taxi driver who’d brought us from the train station, and anyway, I’d seen them once before. This run was not about those places; it was about the other Rome. I crossed that seventh bridge and lost myself in the maze of cobblestone streets and narrow alleys.

Seven Bridges; Part Two

The city was waking up. Miniature garbage trucks manned by men in fluorescent orange jackets roamed the streets. An occasional Carabinieri or Policia could be seen, usually standing motionless, holding their ground. I imagined that there must be crime here, but at the moment doubted anything outside of pure affection for ones fellow human beings existed.
People emerged from small doorways with dogs on leashes or rolling luggage or handbags. I thought for a moment that I might lose my way, and at the same time would have had no problem doing just that. I could always inquire as to the whereabouts of the river, everyone would certainly know, and I would glance down the wider streets from time to time in order to keep the mottled trunks of the sycamores in view.
Occasionally I would hesitate, peering down an alley that might allow two people to pass each other, as long as they were thin. I’d look for signs near the ends that would indicate an exit, not wanting to back track out of a dead end.
All of the low, stucco buildings were colored and weathered, painted by history in a way that no scenic artist could ever hope to duplicate. This is an organic and constantly changing landscape. Lines of calcium dripped from windowsills, white streaks against the ochers and rouges of the facades. One was painted in a rust color and showed yellow where large slabs of plaster had fallen away. The shadows, the dark umber shadows in the gaps in the crenellation on the corners looked as if it had been intentionally applied.
The stones in the streets weren’t just laid, they radiated in overlapping, concentric circles, mimicking way the river reacted to the diving birds. Every aspect of this place seemed to have been carefully considered, every color and every texture perfectly placed, and perfectly executed.

I came upon a cathedral where a glass railed, aluminum ramp allowed wheel chair access up the short flight of stairs. It was slick and treacherous and I held onto the railing as I moved delicately along the corrugated surface. Three arches of massive doors were left opened to reveal inner sets that were made of glass. I had no alternative but to interrupt my run to stare through the huge panes at the beauty and grandeur of the interior. It looked quiet inside and I would have entered but the few that were seated in the pews appeared to be praying and I didn’t want to disturb them. Off I went, down the other side of the stares, frightening off a small group of pigeons that had been battling over a few moldy and soggy rolls that had been tossed into the street.

A portion of a pristine, white structure appeared in the distance between the gaps in the stucco, probably one of the sights we had seen from the taxi, only this was the back and it was partially shrouded in scaffolding and netting. I thought I might head toward it but just then the river returned. It had found me.

I knew that a left would take me to the coliseum and the ancient part of the city, the birthplace of Rome, but it was getting late. The others would be waiting to go for breakfast and the limo was schedule to pick us up at eleven. I looked in its general direction and assured it that I would come back to finish this.

A group of homeless laid on blankets and towels under the overhang of a contemporary building. A young woman was injecting herself as I passed. I wondered if they were all waiting for some sort of clinic to open its doors for the day.

I was back along the water now, and I thought I might cross back over, not wanting to miss the flea market and the turn back toward the Via Phillipo Cassini. The first bridge I came to was chained off to both automobile and pedestrian traffic. I thought this was a little odd, but that perhaps it was unsafe, being as ancient as it was, although all of them seemed to be. The next was open and was the only one out of all that I had passed to employ iron balustrades. I didn’t recognize it, but soon realized that this was the one I had passed beneath when this journey was in its infancy. The café, so far below, with its stacked, white plastic chairs and rough wooden structure was a comforting sight. I would cross at the next opportunity and run along the upper path where I had taken the ramp down on the way out. This would prove to be the only unbroken surface that my feet would encounter this morning. All of the others up until now had been either cobblestone or a mix of deteriorating asphalt and concrete. The short stretch of smooth pavement was a bit of a relief.

I would find the same, serpentine, unutilized tracks where small groups now waited for buses. Back past the colorful flower stand that seemed too small for the arrays that cascaded from its tiers, back across the six-lane thoroughfare, dodging the cars and the trams and the buses. Back where the cafes were beginning to unlock their doors, finally arriving at the base of the street that would put me within a few blocks of my final destination. There I would slow to a walk, but not for long. After two blocks, a tall, marble staircase was laid out in front of me. It was six or seven flights, the width of the entire street and seemed to lead to a wooded area high above. I went after it with great enthusiasm and when I reached the top my thighs burned with gratitude and I found my breathing to be labored for the first time.
I stood at the summit for a minute or two and stared out over the terra cotta tiled roofs whose equal heights and arbitrary angles created an undulating sea of shallow, sienna colored waves. The pair of domes where I had turned to make my return voyage seemed to be so distant as they blended with the mist of the morning. I wondered for a second if it had been nothing more than a dream.

During my final walk up the last block, a slender, dark haired woman passed with her dog. She said something in Italian that I didn’t understand, but her gestures suggested it had something to do with the sweat that soaked my light gray shirt.

I made my way back up around the caged elevator and inserted the oversize key that I’d been carrying in the palm of my hand the entire time into the door. The two women who were my traveling companions each occupied one of the white sofas that were placed at right angles in the living room. They looked up at me, smiled, and asked if I’d had a good run, almost immediately admitting that my appearance spoke for itself.
I showered quickly, dressed, and we walked down the hill together to the nearby pasticceria where we bought postcards and stamps and cappuccinos and lattes and lemon glazed croissants. Rome would soon be behind us.

Bellevue

I’d hoped to be up earlier but by the time we’d finished work, found the obscure hotel, and gotten dinner it had been nearly eleven. I felt tired when I woke, a feeling that has become common as the sixty hour work weeks consume me. I gave myself the standard no excuses speech and threw on my running clothes. The only appropriate stretching aid in the room was the tiny refrigerator by the door. It would have to do. Out by the trail my car’s rear bumper works well.
I thought that maybe the path along the bay would be nice; I’d walked it a short distance yesterday while I was waiting for the truck to arrive. The length was certainly there but so was the job, and I would see the large, white tents and the furniture as I passed. Maybe along the waterfront back in town, near the hotel, no, that would be inappropriate at only a few blocks and I’d have to continue on one of the narrow, cluttered streets, and anyway, San Francisco’s Embarcadero held far more appeal, at least in memory.

The mansions, it would have to be the mansions. We’d driven Bellevue Avenue in our search for the hotel, driven it in the wrong direction and then doubled back after a stranger in on the sidewalk responded to our inquiry. I’d been on this road once before, in the evening as well, but I’d never really seen the mansions.
It was an uphill climb to the start, both spiritually and topographically. I started off at a jog but soon realized that walking the six or seven steep blocks would be a better choice, and a chance to warm up. The streets were tiny and some were laid with cobblestones, the clapboard and shingle houses separated by little more than the breeze that blew off the bay.
After leveling off, the route began with the boutiques and shopping malls that lined the blocks preceding the wealth and privilege of the past. I was surprised at the condition of the sidewalk; coarse, uneven, weathered gravel. After a few minutes I decided that I would never make it on a surface that torqued my ankles constantly and so dropped off the curb to the street. There seemed to be ample room, and although not officially designated, the expansion joint a couple of feet from the edge seem to serve as a border to a bike lane. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
I began to travel backwards in time. As I moved along the wide, straight, concrete avenue, the mansions grew larger and more palatial, staggering in their sheer size. Limestone columns that rivaled the Parthenon, curved, marble staircases and balustrades, wings that led to other wings, homes built to a scale that almost defies reality. Huge windows with the curtains tied back, straddling a ballroom or lavish dining room allowed the low sun to pour through from the ocean side.
Ancient oaks spilled over black, iron gates with gilded accents while transparent figures in proper Victorian attire strolled casually over immaculately maintained lawns. I could see them; I could see the white, lace gowns and the black suits and the pipes, the upper echelon of past generations chatting idly about their place in society.

Each property had a name either on the gate or on one of the many elaborate limestone walls that protected the massive structures from the less fortunate population, and most also had a plaque that designated it a member of the Newport Preservation Society. Only a few said “private” at the entrance. One was now a museum of illustration and daily guided tours were offered by at least two or three. I wouldn’t have the time to participate in one of those this time around, thinking that maybe I would come back when work was not a factor.

The road made a sharp right at the end of the run of mansions and then another half a mile or so farther on. This led to a left turn onto Ocean Drive, the newly paved, asphalt road that followed the coastline back into town, the long way around. The moon was in front of me, full, and a little higher in the sky then the sun that was now at my back. It appeared as transparent as the figures on the lawns but with features just as discernable.
I thought I’d left the majesty of Bellevue, and I suppose I had since the houses now were a bit more contemporary but equally as grand. The first, at the top of the hill to my right was a sprawling white stucco affair with no less than eight chimneys. This was obviously a year round residence, unlike the gaudier, more ostentatious manors that I remembered somewhere along the way were only summer homes, occupied maybe two months out of the year, then the furniture was draped and the doors locked. They had no chimneys, at least none that were plainly visible.
The urge to keep moving forward nearly took over but I knew I was getting to a point where I would have to turn around in order to get back in time for the workday to begin. Just a little farther, to the top, close to the level of the lower windows where I could get a sense of what the allure of living by the ocean might be. My father had a condo on the coast of California for quite a few years and I visited from time to time, but it was difficult to conceive of being there daily, the view only of water and sky.
As I made the turn I understood. The seemingly endless ocean spread out in front of me, there was a small cove with a gray, sandy beach, and seagulls gathered and squawked above the shallow water. Rocky cliffs, cattails and tall grass decorated the landscape. The scene was stunning, dwarfing the man made structures that could only admire the vastness and the mystery of nature from their tiny perches. I could easily imagine looking out over this every day as the light and the colors shift constantly, painting a new image with each passing season, each passing day, each passing hour.

As I made my way back past the grandeur of competitive opulence, one other unusual aspect of this particular run struck me; almost everyone that I had passed, whether jogging or biking or just walking, waved and said “good morning”, all but two I think. This was a first. There were smiles and plenty of eye contact, even from across the street. I was astounded and began to wonder what the cost of living might be and what I could do for work if I chose to dwell here for a time.

As always I deviated, needing to go just a little farther, down the hill and along the docks, with the clutter of too many sailboats in too little bay. I would approach the hotel from the other side, slow to a walk at the base of the street that leads to the front door, and spend ten minutes cooling down.
I got back to my room just in time to take a quick shower and meet the crew downstairs for breakfast, managing for the last hour and a half to have forgotten about the task at hand and experience a unique beauty that the others would never know.

Botany

I was thinking as I passed the various carefully planted displays on my right, and the wild, untended arrays to my left, that I really should learn the names of these plants and flowers. I can certainly appreciate their beauty without this knowledge but I feel somehow ignorant and uneducated. I don’t like that feeling, always needing to be in command of the situation, or perhaps more likely, always required to be in command of the situation, something I’ve simply become accustomed to.

Another Sunday morning and I nearly didn’t run. I’d woken hungry and woozy long before dawn, regretting the decision not to cook the small piece of swordfish that I’d bought yesterday afternoon. After the long week of work I really just didn’t have the energy. This is becoming more and more common as the demands of the job increase, another meal planned and then abandoned. I don’t eat out anymore, not just because of the expense, but because I’ve grown tired of sitting at tables or bars alone, frequently the only one unaccompanied.

I went out despite the weakness, maybe just the short part of the trail, maybe just the four and a half miles that was the beginning. I never thought I’d hear those words, even in my own thoughts, just four and a half miles. I couldn’t help being amused. I’d start from the upper lot; it’s been a while since I’ve parked there.

As I started off I thought that I would never be able to do this today, anticipating ending up walking to my car in defeat, but reminded myself that it was only two weeks ago when I’d gotten out to fourteen. Certainly, even in my current state I could make it this relatively short distance.

Black eyed Susans, and of course the freshly planted maples, the only ones I could name as I trotted along the path, a feat that could probably be performed by any six year old in the area. My lack of knowledge continued to frustrate me. I decided that I would buy a book today, and would study the names and the next time I would be properly informed.

There are techniques to the running as well, ways to avoid injury and increase speed and endurance. I am as ignorant of these as I am of the species of plant life that surrounds me. I could use an education, maybe this is an appropriate time to begin. There is so much that I don’t know, so much mystery, so much to be learned. The thought of acquiring all of the knowledge I desire is overwhelming.

I think I’ll start small, maybe just with the flowers, and maybe just a few at a time. It’s August and they won’t last much longer. I should take that part on immediately; it’s been far too long since I’ve learned about a subject that I truly cared about.

I did visit the book store later in the day, and scanned the various botanical guides, but became frustrated as I flipped through the hundreds of illustrations without finding a single, familiar plant. So I opted instead to spend the money I had allotted on a small gift for some friends. My education would have to wait one more day.

Breaking Through

I was thinking as I drove along about the race that was near the end of September, the half marathon that I’d been half training for and half not. I was headed for the trail, the one where all of this madness had begun only a short eighteen months ago, the four and a half mile stretch of asphalt that became so familiar during the summer and fall.

I’d decided earlier in the week that my Sunday run, usually the longest of the week, would take me in the opposite direction, through the wooded portion, a measured ten kilometer round trip. I hadn’t done that yet, not the ten K, I’ve run my share of those, but the trip through the woods. I’d been hesitant, wondering if there might not be obstacles; fallen trees perhaps, or rocky areas that could cause an injury. Today I would find out, and then decide afterwards whether or not I wanted to
continue on.

It was early when I arrived and only one other car occupied the lower parking area where one could take either course. A light fog still hung in the air as I started off along the path, and the noise of the traffic on the busy two lane highway evaporated almost instantly, giving way to the soft crunch of my sneakers on the fine gravel, my own breathing, and the sounds of the birds that seemed to be everywhere.

I had crossed the two, short wooden bridges and was passing the back of the house that had been the farthest I’d ventured, adding a little extra to the four and a half when I felt strong enough, when I spotted a narrow post with a .5 carved into it. I was disappointed, wanting the end to be a bit of a surprise. I hadn’t planned on ticking off the miles. I could do that on the treadmill anytime. Fortunately, they seemed to disappear after the one mile marker.

The forest began to drop off to my right, creating a valley while the hillside rose to my left. The path became a little more course and was laced with brown pine needles that had been arranged by the runoff from the recent storms. This trail was obviously well maintained by the town and I knew that there would be none of the obstructions that I’d feared.

A toad croaked and as I neared what looked to be a swamp I thought about the ponds in the rural area where I spent most of my teen years. The ponds where we fished with sticks and line and balled white bread skewered by a little barbed hook. We always tried for perch but the sunfish would attack in large numbers. It was nearly impossible not to catch one of those.

The water was stagnant and coated with a thin layer of algae. Leafless trees stood erect while others leaned, poised to fall and be consumed, and still others little more than rotted stumps. New life sprouted from the decaying carcasses, leafy vines and shrubs, and even a few flowering plants. The coating broke up, and then was gone, allowing the surface of the still water to mirror the scene as perfectly as any silvered piece of glass, the dark, almost black where the timber broke the surface, the grays of the weathered trunks, and the greens of the new growth. The only signs of movement were the tiny concentric rings that insects generated as they alit briefly and then moved on.

Now I had to wonder, were there fish here, and if there were how did they get here? Was it possible that evolution had taken place in this very spot and a form of pond life had developed from a single celled organism into one that was scaly and finned and nibbled on the insects that disturbed the peaceful water? I saw no evidence of this, but I had to accept that the possibility did exist.

It was all woods again now and I thought I must be getting close to the end of the trail. This was confirmed by the return of the mile markers, this one proclaiming three. Another tenth and I would be on my way back. The sun was moving higher into the sky, the fog had lifted completely, and the light penetrating the branches streaked the path and draped across the hills as delicately as a silk scarf tossed over the arm of a sofa.

I spotted a dollar bill on the ground as I circled to go back and picked it up. I had no place to put it, no pockets, so I held it between my thumb and index finger for the duration. This would not be my only reward today.

As I passed the reflections on the return trip I thought about the call from my sister the other night. My father had left me a message, sent me an email as well, asking why I hadn’t responded to his call. I didn’t respond to that either. He’d phoned her and had asked if she knew why he hadn’t heard from me. That was a strange thing to do, unless she’d informed him of our renewed contact. Up until April in San Francisco, we hadn’t spoken more than once every couple of years for as long as I can remember. I admitted to her that I had no desire to speak to him, and that he was probably just trying, once again, to get me involved in the project that I had expressed no interest in. I explained to her that the last time I worked with him it had put me out of business, that he’d personally driven the final nail, and had thought nothing of it, so no, I would not be returning his calls, not for now. She understood.

The scenes were familiar now and as I neared the end I became anxious, feeling strong and knowing I could go on. I thought I would run the paved part, add another four and a half to the six plus I was nearly done with, I wanted to be done with this part, I wanted to be on the asphalt.

Finally, the parking area and the water bottle that was waiting for me on the front seat. I grabbed it, took a few swigs and left it on the trunk to facilitate my next pass. I also put the ten K into my back pocket, convincing myself that I was just beginning. I was planning to go farther now, but just how far was unclear. The upper parking lot and the return would bring me to a little over ten and a half miles, if I made it, my longest to date being nine and a half, but I was determined.

I’d only seen one other person during the first part of my journey but now the trails were becoming busier, with walkers and other runners, cyclists, leashed dogs and strollers. As I reached the crossing that was halfway to the upper lot I thought to myself “you can do this, just keep moving”. There was no one here to cheer me on, no one to coach me or keep me motivated, and nothing waiting for me at the end.

This terrain was almost overly familiar, the labeled berms, the benches, the overpass and the new signs that had been placed in the spring. I made the turn, just a hair less than eight and a half miles in and I was moving well, now I was counting and calculating. I would be at ten point six when I got back to the gravel trail and the water bottle that I was becoming a bit desperate for. If I went on, perhaps to the mile marker and then back to the crossing I would end at around thirteen eight, farther than the half marathon that I aspired to complete, and then I could casually walk the mile and a quarter back to the car.

With the crossing behind me once again I was now approaching the nine and a half that was once my limit. As I moved through the invisible barrier I looked down and saw a shadow, one that was new, one that was in no way threatening, I smiled and pressed on, through the lot and then onward, back along the gravel, and a new calculation. I was weakening and would turn at the half mile marker and then return to the crossing... no the overpass, just a little beyond, that would guarantee I would be clear of fourteen miles when I passed the snow fence and the wooden uprights for the last time.

I was breathing heavier now and I tried to quiet myself, I’d come this far and I couldn’t back down, I had to find out, I had to know if I could do this. I was talking to myself, at times loud enough for others to hear, telling myself over and over that it was only a little farther, only two more miles. The bridge had looked to be a hundred miles away but I was heading back now, and after passing the farm for the fourth time I could see the guard rail that led to the finish. I could see it, I could smell the dampness of the woods, and I could taste the rusty metal on the edge of my tongue.

My calves were aching and the pain was beginning migrate north. Another half mile, then only a quarter more. Anyone along the trail could hear me now, audibly coaxing myself to go on, and then the fence and the uprights and the cramp in my stomach that hit just as I approached and then suddenly it all was behind me. I stopped and let out a yell that probably could have been heard at either end of the trail, possibly in the next town.

It was over.

As I drove away I thought about the shadow that I’d seen at nine and a half miles, it wasn’t gray and it wasn’t blurred, instead it was a lush, mottled green and the outline was crisp with every detail clearly visible. I’d recognized it immediately but just to be certain I’d held out both of my hands and splayed my fingers as widely as I could. The shadow did the same. It was true, I was alone, there were no others here, no ghosts, no one else pulling at me, no history, no battles and no baggage. It was pacing me, running alongside me, not as an adversary, not as an outside force imposing its will, but as a companion. I understood the moment I’d seen it that the past was just that, it too was over, it too was behind me, and my real journey could finally begin.

The Fountain

I knew today wasn’t an option, the flight had arrived late last night and the tall, slender, dark skinned gentleman at the hotel desk, whose hair looked more like a coating of gloss black paint than anything natural, and who was effeminate to the point of being comical, informed me that they were over booked and he was sending me elsewhere, and that he, personally, would be orchestrating the event.
After the complimentary dinner at the lobby bar, It took nearly half an hour for the cab to transport me to the alternative hotel, which I discovered the next morning to be only nine blocks away, with all of the streets apparently being one way, and all in the wrong direction. It had been after eleven when I finally inserted the plastic card into the door, saw the flashing green light and heard the distinctive snap of the electronic lock.


I got a bad feeling when I arrived at the booth space the next morning and found it empty. A visit to the ehxibitor service desk only confirmed my fears. There was no record of the shipment even being in town. I calmly sent the local labor home, knowing I had three days until the show opened, and spent the next two hours on the phone, walking back and forth between the desk and the space (not a short distance by any means) until I was satisfied that the freight would be arriving that afternoon, four days after the promised delivery date.

With my work day thwarted I decided to explore the city, my only two other visits here being twenty nine hour days between flights, but first I had to figure out what to do with my luggage. The second hotel had not been a permanent move, only available for the one night, and I’d checked out and was dragging my rolling suitcase around with me. It really wasn’t an unusual sight in this part of town, being so close to exhibit halls, but it was a bit annoying. I decided to wander over to my original accommodations, knowing it was far too early to check in, but wanting some reassurance that I had a place to sleep for the remainder of my stay, and hoping they had somewhere I could leave my bag.

The aquarium was only a few blocks away so that would be first. I could make amends for missing out in San Francisco at the whim of the seven year old dictator. I walked over, passed through the weapons screening (apparently the confiscation rate is high), paid my twenty four dollars and went in. It was worth every cent, the place was spectacular. I spent a couple of hours wandering through past the sea horses, sharks, whales and otters until I was satisfied that I’d missed nothing and then exited into the heat of the day through the gift shop, the only way out, thinking very briefly about picking something up for the girls as I passed the stuffed seals and dolphins, but abandoning the idea as quickly as it had come. It would be meaningless since they weren’t here with me.
I still had three hours before I could check in so I walked the streets of Atlanta, investigating the surrounding neighborhoods, looking for what might be real, for what might give this city its character, moving away from the downtown area where roving bands of teenagers wearing pink t shirts with Jesus emblazoned on them try to convert passers by.
I didn’t find much and at three as I nearly considered taking the CNN tour, the front desk called and I would be allowed upstairs. I only stayed long enough to retrieve my luggage and then went back over to the hall to make sure that I would, in fact, have something to work with the next morning. It was nearly six when I finally locked the door and climbed into the recliner by the pseudo bay window.
The next morning I woke with with aching shins and calves and it took me a little while to realize that I’d walked around town for nearly ten and a half hours the day before. The soreness shouldn’t have been surprising. There would be no running today, and probably not tomorrow either. This wasn’t good, and the problem was compounded later in the day when I offered to assist a couple of women across the aisle who appeared to be struggling and managed to do something unpleasant to my left hip in the process. Now I was a wreck, hunched over and limping. That night at dinner I had serious doubts that the Atlanta run that I had planned was even possible.
Thursday brought more pain and a workday that went well past eight. Most of my body parts were complaining now and the hotel bed wasn’t helping either, with the overly soft mattress contributing lower back pain to the mix.


The view from my fourteenth floor window offered the pristine Centennial Park and the fountain that had been built for the infamous ninety six Olympics. It consisted of a series of evenly spaced water jets at regular intervals in the form of the five rings that comprised the symbol of the games. The jets and the drainage grating that made up the actual circles were flush with the paving stones and were now utilized by the local population as a public sprinkler. During the day screeching children ran in and out of the programmed sequences, none of which sent the water spouts more than six feet into the air.
Three times daily, familiar concertos and pop tunes were pumped through nearby speakers and the water would dance to the music. The public was asked to stay out of the spray during these performances. I’d witnessed a portion of one of these as I passed one evening, promising myself that in a final tribute to this city I would dash through the fountain at the end of my run.

Friday morning had arrived, this was my last day here, and my last opportunity. The show opens at nine so there would be no calls from the client and my flight wasn’t until after six that evening. I stood at the window and stared out at the gradually brightening sky, the park and the cranes, wavering, wondering, still feeling the pain in my calves and my hip.
If I was going to do this I would have to get out there soon, before full sun and the rising temperature, maybe just a lap around the park, maybe half an hour, maybe three miles, I could manage that under the worst of circumstances.
I made my decision, brushed my teeth, threw on a pair of shorts and a t shirt, made my way down to the lobby and pushed through the revolving door to the sidewalk, walked the block that took me to the first path, turned left into the park, and I was off. The pain in my legs and my hip seemed to evaporate almost immediately… I knew I could do this.

The edge of the manicured lawns and pathways ended quickly and I exited, crossed the street and continued behind the aquarium where one of those pervasive, poured concrete buildings was under construction, there were many here. I thought I might circle back at the end of the attraction, but felt all right now and continued on, into the neighborhoods where the sidewalks were cracked and broken and graffiti strewn retaining walls rimmed empty parking lots.
I had no idea Atlanta was so contoured, these were not the gentle rolling hills of Central Park, they were steep and long and unforgiving. I tried to Rook my way along, take part of a hill and then turn, moving along a flat or a down slope.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, relaxing, this has become a symbol of the two mile mark, always occurring at the same distance, without fail and without deliberate thought.
I didn’t know the streets, coming upon dead ends and more construction, and there was traffic, and there were people on the sidewalks, and I had no idea where I was, but I kept going. My hotel was at the CNN center, if I could see the letters I could navigate back, and it would be a few more blocks of climbing before I spotted them. Now it was a matter of finding the next overpass to cross the highway and make my way back to the far end of the park. It would be down hill all the way to the edge of the grass where five flights of stairs would bring me back to the paths and the last part of the journey where the fountain was anxiously awaiting my arrival.
I was moving uphill again as I got closer. I’d been concerned when I’d begun that the fountain might not be operating so early in the morning, and it wasn’t when I’d left, but now I could see the spouts, and the ever changing landscape. I passed it by this time in favor of the upper tier and the stage where last nights revival meeting made itself known through the sealed, thermal panes of my room’s exterior. I passed it again on the way down, one more lap around the lower field and then I would make that last dash through the rings that would bring closure.
The first series of jets dropped as I entered, then jumped up as I got to the next, obviously controlled by sensors below the grating. There was just enough room to squeeze in between, and I was in the fifth circle when one of them caught me up the left side, giving me a good soaking. I walked away... and then back, slowly, into the center of the third ring, and stood still as the mist from the much tinier, perimeter jets enveloped me, the only person here, blocking any view of my surroundings and shrouding me from anyone that might be passing by.
After a short walk to cool down I went back to the lobby, sweaty and chlorinated, but content, and wearing a smile that probably would have appeared a little bit odd to anyone who might have noticed. I could leave here now, I was done.

A Day in the Park

My eyes opened a little later than I’d hoped for, six thirty the second time, three thirty was the first, but that would have been silly. I’d gotten the bug weeks ago while setting up an event in the observation deck at Rockefeller Center, or “The Top of the Rock”, as it’s commonly known. I’d never been up there before, never even known it existed. I’d stood outside, pressed against the one inch thick sheet of glass that was the only barrier between me and the crowded street fifty or sixty stories below where tourists teemed and the plaza was hosting a netted golf driving challenge featuring men who’d had one or both legs amputated.
The day was clear and the views were spectacular, with every inch of the city visible, from the Verrazano Bridge and Staten Island to the far edge of the Bronx, and just a few blocks north of where I stood, Central Park was laid out as a perfectly contained rectangle, lush and green and as flat and neat and tidy as if it just been freshly planted, a manicured, miniature landscape.
A couple of weeks later I found myself sitting on a rock in that same park with a couple of friends, killing some time before a reading. It was a Saturday afternoon and the place was busy, filled with couples sunning themselves, children on swings and families with their dogs. We watched a variety of birds battling over small crusts of bread, and a squirrel, perched on the tiny knurl of an oak, the entertainment and the activity seemed endless.
The roadway was open only to foot and bicycle traffic and was filled with both. I knew I had to come back here and participate, rather than just watch the others move past, I needed to be a part of this.

I was out the door by seven fifteen, grabbing a quick breakfast at the diner, heading south on the highway by eight. There wouldn’t be any traffic on the weekend so I had a chance of hitting the park by nine thirty, maybe a quarter to ten, that would be all right, I could spend some time there and still get back to the office at a reasonable hour to do the little bit of work that was required of me.
The bridge was clear and the west side highway was moving quickly. As I drove along I saw joggers and riders and thought about maybe running along the river instead, then no, maybe next time, I had a specific goal today. I exited at the seventy ninth street boat basin and cut through the park on eighty first, casually looking for street parking along the way but knowing that fifth avenue on the east side would be wide open at this time on a Sunday morning, and it was. A right turn, one block south and I left the car behind.
I crossed the street and walked along the stone barrier for another block until a gap afforded access, now I was inside, wondering briefly if driving an hour and forty five minutes from my rural area at the foot of the Catskills to run in a city park was an odd thing to do, deciding almost immediately that it was a perfectly reasonable endeavor. The journey has become commonplace for a fifteen minute meeting or just to drop something off that couldn’t wait; certainly this was a far more rational excuse for making the trip.
The sounds of the traffic on the avenue faded quickly as I started off south, moving at a comfortable pace inward along one of the narrow paths, not really having any clue regarding distance or direction, hoping to come upon the main artery that circled the perimeter, understanding that it would be impossible not to. When I eventually did I continued south, going against the general flow of traffic. If I’d been the only one I might have turned around, feeling as if I’d broken some sort of unspoken etiquette, but there were a handful of others so I continued, wanting to get to the southernmost edge, fifty ninth street, which I would consider to be the beginning. I’d entered at seventy sixth so it wasn’t long before The Plaza and the other upscale residences loomed above the tree line and the pungent aroma of horse manure permeated the air as the Hansom Cabs ferried tourists into the park. I can’t say that I ever found this somewhat malodorous form of transportation appealing in any way.
I made my turn, keeping an eye on the ground in this particular spot, not wishing to inadvertently drag any of the equine feces along on my little excursion. Now I was moving with the masses, slower than most but passing others from time to time. I tend to keep my pace down when distance is a mystery, and anyway, I certainly was in no hurry to be done with this one. The sounds now were of bird calls, the gentle slapping of sneakers on the asphalt, and the occasional and distinctive whir of bicycle wheels and roller blades passing quickly to my right.
The crowd was relatively dense, reminding me of the last 10k towards the end, when we were spread out along the course but always had another nearby. It thinned as I traveled north, able to see the signs along the avenue when the road took me close, ninety fifth, one hundred and sixth, mansion row now behind me, and then the curves that would take me along one hundred and tenth and then south, but first circling a pool, a massive swimming pool that was called a rink on the sign preceding it, iced over during the winter months. I thought of it frozen, with the blue painted concrete diffused by the thickness of the ice. It wasn’t open for the day yet, but if it had been I might have been compelled to dive in, then no, I had to keep moving, moving towards a goal that had never existed before today, a goal that I never would have imagined existed for me at all.
I saw things in the park that I knew were here but had never seen, the Boat House, the children’s, Zoo, Tavern on the Green, and one playground after another where young girls and boys swung and giggled noisily. Lakes and ponds, a marionette theater, the entire oasis a world within itself, and there were hills, hills that I never would have guessed were here when I stood so high above and looked down from my vantage point in the sky.
I was heading south now, along the west side, where the majority of the visible buildings seemed older than those on the east side. A man called to me, “do you know the cross street?” he asked, I looked around, just coming off the turn, and said; somewhere around a hundred and seventh, uncertain but somewhat confident in my assessment, suddenly feeling as though I really did know where I was, and of course I did, after living here on and off for years and my six month stint driving a fleet cab in the city we were intimate, the blocks, the park drive, the fur clad women who became indignant at the mere thought of a wrong turn or a missed address.

It had been a while now and there were no volunteers along the street handing out little paper cups filled with water as they do during organized races. The next available fountain would be a very brief but necessary stop, not wanting to break stride, but with dehydration imminent. Others walked along wearing elaborate belts over their designer sportswear that housed small bottles of various colored liquids in elastic compartments. The next turn brought relief and I was on my way, fifty or sixty blocks to go. I was the one to pass now, while others slowed and walked, keeping ahead of the few that had been along on the northern tier, they were fading as I picked up the pace. I knew that my goal was achievable, careful not too get too carried away as I still didn’t quite know the distance.
The back of the boat house and another small lake, I wanted to go down the path and circle the water, but again, next time, I’ll do this again. The crowd was thickening again and the din of the conversations, birds, and the nearby avenue was growing, the quiet of the hundred and tenth street s curves a memory.
I could see the buildings again now, the ones along the south side of fifty ninth street and I looked over the trees to try and spot the observation deck that had started all of this, maybe a reflection off of the glass, or the cell towers that projected from the roof, the ones that made reception impossible upstairs due to their proximity. It wasn’t readily visible but I wasn’t disappointed, it was really just curiosity.
Arriving back at the south side of the park was suddenly unfulfilling so seventy sixth, where I’d entered, would be my new end, but that wasn’t it either and I turned back west, through a wide gravel path lined with bronze statues, iron benches, and a woman in a blue chiffon dress and white pumps singing to tunes that sprang from a karaoke box on the bench behind her.
The next water fountain would really be the end, I was spent and as it turned out it was a little south, on a side trail, just before the stairs that led down to a shelter with a newly renovated tile ceiling and a couple playing violin and guitar in the shade of the entrance, another new discovery whose other end spilled out onto a plaza where three cellos and a bongo played to the constant applause of the water that cascaded from the second tier of a three tiered fountain, splashing convincingly into the reservoir below. I walked to the edge of the terra cotta colored paving stones where stairs led directly into a pond where row boats were steered around in an almost comically congested array, nearly colliding in the small body of water.
I decided it was time to go now, there were other things I wanted to do today, and I went back past the fountain where the breeze pushed the falling liquid awkwardly to the left, stopping briefly to listen to the cellos, and then up the stairs and the woman in the blue dress and another guitar and then a saxophone, and finally back to fifth avenue, six blocks south of where I’d entered, feeling like I had a little more life left in me, breaking into a trot along the scaffolding shrouded sidewalk on the opposite side of the street from the stone park surround, stopping only when I reached my car.
I got in, took my sneakers off, changed my shirt in the front seat and then pulled my jeans back on over my shorts, sat for just a minute and then walked the four blocks north to the Metropolitan Museum and the newly reopened Greek and Roman galleries.
Judging by the length of time I’d been out, eight or nine miles of pavement had passed beneath me, I couldn’t be sure and it didn’t really matter anyway, I had once again done what I had set out to do. This is a new way of life for me, this setting of achievable goals, rather than the impossibly lofty ones that were set for me in my youth. I will come back here, maybe along the river, maybe across the bridge, wherever the next one begins I know how it will end, I know I’ll finish and that is one thing she can never take from me.

Later in the Day

It had been an odd day, getting in after two in the morning from a reading in the city. We’d shared the driving this time which turned out to be a luxury rather than the tense and nauseating experience that I expected. It’s not that I didn’t trust her at the wheel, it’s the remnants of a life altering amusement park ride as a child, one which changed me chemically in a way that prevented me from ever being amused in that way again and created a situation that would make it nearly impossible for me to be in the passenger seat of a car later in life. At least if I was at the wheel I could anticipate the movement of the vehicle, easing the effects of the rocking and swaying.
Sunday is usually the day for my long run but today was not meant to be. I was up at six anyway, the light pouring in through the far from opaque blinds, managing to look away until seven before giving up not only to the flames of the sun but to those of unwritten chapters that were suddenly demanding attention, the ones that had been missing for months but now were flooding my thoughts and my notebook and the screen. The manuscript that had gone awry was finally in focus and waiting to be put into print, I had no choice but to oblige. The run would have to wait, and anyway, I doubted I had the energy.
The words came at a furious and frustrating pace with my feeble typing ability far from able to keep up, but I persevered, going for hours at the keyboard and then off to the diner where my notebook took over, more words that would have to be transcribed later in the day, tomorrow would be too late, this had to happen now. Then on to the office where I knew I had some work that had to be done but went onto web sites instead, looking for others to connect with. I found a couple and sent notes, also seeking out other group sites where I could promote my own work. I managed to make it appear as though I made some progress for the business and then went back to writing, half an hour at the café and then home, back to the keyboard.
Now I was crashing, dinner had to happen by four so I through a couple of pans on the stove and went after it. By five thirty I was out, napping on the mattress that once inhabited the fold out but became a much better prospect directly on the floor. At seven the laptop beckoned, promising to bring some sort of completion.
I became restless and turned to the clock near the television on the old, oak dresser, eight eleven; the day was still as bright as it had been at seven, the first time I’d dragged myself off of the floor. Being only the second or third day of summer, there was probably a solid forty five minutes of daylight left. If I hustled, I could get my bag out of the car, change, and make a dash to the ranch and back before the road and the darkness became too dangerous, three miles and my day would be complete.
The weather was perfect, clear and maybe seventy, with the sun low and a slight breeze.
I didn’t hesitate, moving quickly past the flower farm, maybe a little too fast I thought, but I was only going three, feeling that I’d started at this pace for the last 10K, I wasn’t concerned, it’s all about feeling what I’m capable of on any given day, letting my body dictate, and at this moment I needed to move.
The ranch was even closer this time, being the midpoint, and the bison were out on the upper tier. I crossed at the end of the field and headed back with the orange glow of the sun over my left shoulder, now too low in the sky to be visible, casting the distant mountains and what is left of a failed marriage and an attempt at family into a silhouette of hazy blue.
A small dog barked and the remains of birds once again littered the narrow shoulder as I made my way back, the darkness now becoming increasingly evident in the shade of the maples along the roadside. Cars and trucks passed with their headlights glowing brightly. I’d never run in the evening, always exhausted after a day in the trenches, making it a morning priority and if I faded at work, so be it, I’d done what was important, so this was new, and a fitting end to a day devoted exclusively to art, and to the pursuit of what really matters.

Eulogy

The air was warm and thick and moist and the cloud cover dense. I knew I had to get out there before it either rained or the sun broke through and heated the day further, no excuses. There are days when the trail feels as if it’s twenty miles long rather than the two and a quarter that delivers me to the northern parking area where I’ll turn and head back. This was certainly one of those days. As I began I tried to ignore the flames that were erupting in various locations of my digestive system.
The headings were the only readable parts of the new factoids that had been installed along the wooded side of the trail, square signs mounted to three and a half inch square, pressure treated posts, with color renderings and reproductions of artwork that had been generated locally. It’s almost as if the trail was being gentrified, upgraded to tourist status by the state, with the occasional berms along the way sharing the names of the “adopters” on low, blue, metal signs, one of which was a bit of an embarrassment since the weeds had taken over.
My legs felt as strong as they ever have but my breathing was labored, my lungs struggling to absorb all of that moisture along with the oxygen.

As I ran I began to think of that dinner that we never shared. We’d discussed it again after the Tuesday writing workshop, after I’d deposited what he admiringly described as his cursed laptop into the back seat of his car, the red Subaru sedan with the dented bumper, as I’d been doing for several weeks now. We were close to setting an actual date. I was too busy that week, too busy for friendship, imagine, and the next I’d be working in Vegas, so we would have to wait just a little longer, agreeing that we probably had quite a bit to talk about.
I didn’t find out until I checked my email at the hotel’s business office Saturday morning that he had passed the very next day after that conversation. The dinner would never take place, nor would any further conversations, I was devastated. It’s so rare that we find someone who we can connect with, someone so similar in tone and thought. Even the thirty plus years differing our ages seemed to evaporate when we spoke. I suddenly felt cheated, as if this relationship had been taken away before it had begun, our mutual admiration society never even submitting its charter application.
I felt badly for his wife and our little community as a whole. He was a brilliant man, filled with knowledge and wisdom of eighty some odd years and even in command of the Russian language when suddenly called upon. He said it was air force Russian but we knew better.
The last story that he read took us back to another era, another time when men played cards and drank bourbon and lemonade in t-shirts on warm, summer evenings on the porches of row houses in the city. It was a beautifully painted portrait, detailed with an understatement that imbued all of the colors and sounds and smells without the need for specifics.
It’s selfish, but this is only the second time in my life that I’ve lost someone who really meant something to me. Distant relatives passed, funerals were attended; I’ve gone through the motions of grieving, the handles of many caskets gripped tightly in my hand, once or twice even feeling hurt by the loss. The tears that are shed are not over the state of the deceased, but over our own loss, and although I can’t be absolutely certain, I have my doubts that I’ll be the one who is upset when I’m being lowered into the ground.

I hadn’t noticed the newly planted maples on my way out, only now that I was approaching three miles and the final leg of this particular course. I suppose I’d been too busy trying to read the new informational signs. They weren’t small; maybe twelve feet, full of leaves, but they were definitely recent additions to the grassy area between the trail and the highway, the soil around the roots still aerated and uncompressed.
The crayfish were out as well, crawling from the nearby creek on occasion. I have no clue why they do this.
When I reached the end and walked back to my car I thought again of the friend that I never really had but will certainly always have through my memory of his wit, his voice, his stories and that rare and indefinable connection that, if we are very, very lucky, we are privileged to share, even for a moment, with another human being.

A Little Longer

I’d gotten home late after having dinner with friends, staying up even longer watching a ridiculously overdone Bond film, probably the only one I haven’t seen, taking the franchise to new levels of absurdity. It was a few cocktails later and near midnight when I finally pressed the red button on the remote and closed my eyes.

The dawn was unrelenting as the blinds began to glow with the blue light of another overcast morning. I managed to fight it off for a while but finally caved in just after six and rolled off the mattress. I’d mapped out an eight mile round trip yesterday, setting the odometer to zero to get a relatively accurate reading of the winding, country roads surrounding the shoe box that I currently inhabit.

The effects of the previous night were tugging at my motivation but I don’t accept excuses. I’d made the commitment and I had to go through with it, otherwise the guilt would occupy my thoughts for the rest of the day. I walked over to the window and lifted one of the slats, peering out at the church across the road and the array of headstones that fills the nearby field. As I suspected the cloud cover was dense and the trees suggested there was a subtle breeze coming from no particular direction. It had been hot the last few days, topping out near ninety and cooling off little in the evenings, unusual for the first week of June in the northeast, but not this morning. The setting was perfect for a longer run and I couldn’t pass up the invitation to be a participant in the scene rather than an audience member.

I took another half an hour to do a little stretching and pull myself together, quickly rinsing off the remnants of sleep with a cool shower, and I was out the door, tossing my house key onto the front seat of my car as I passed.

Today wasn’t about speed or time, but about increasing my distance, an effort that had stagnated for nearly a year while I worked on my five and ten K times, mostly indoors over the winter on the treadmills at the gym. They’re good for the softness of their belts and the clocks and the mileage counters, but they can’t compare to the feeling of moving through the landscape, seeing every blade of grass and every leaf, and the other inhabitants that share this place that we pass too quickly in our cars to notice.

I started off at a slower pace than I normally would, knowing that I had to be conservative, somehow feeling that I had no real destination today, no actual goal, as if once I began there might be no end at all.

I remembered the skunk right away, as soon as I got the first whiff. It had been hit days ago and continued to remind anyone who passed by of its unfortunate demise. I came upon the carcass along the first curve beyond the farm, never seeing decaying flesh and fir quite that closely before. I looked away, the sight and the odor made me a bit queasy and I thought I might have to stop, fortunately feeling better once I was out of range.

The Bison ranch seemed closer, being a little more familiar with the landscape this time, and they were out, most in the upper confines but three below, near the road and the high voltage, wire fence where small red and white signs warned of the danger. One heard my footsteps, possibly a different sound than the constant traffic that they had probably become inured to, and turned to look at me as I passed, I did the same, our eyes met and I had to wonder at that moment if we shared a thought. I couldn’t help thinking that he must have thought I was as ugly as I thought he was, possibly some sort of alien species, it all made perfect sense.

I continued along to the curve past the multi-religional church and then the crossing that I knew was nearly three miles out, never hesitating, feeling comfortable, breathing easily, still feeling as if this might have no end, no real resolution. There was a growing distance between my studio and myself, a distance that felt eerily similar to the vast waters that now separate me from my wife and children, a feeling of total solitude, with any thought of returning out of reach, any thought of family diminished, moving forward being the only thing that mattered.

Now I was into the unknown, the section of road that would take me to the first crossing, and then the next that would bring
me to my halfway mark at the tracks and the jewelry store that’s in a location that no one would ever come upon accidentally.

There’s another church in this section, the one that has the appearance of an oversize farm house, the one that kept a makeshift sign by the road during its construction that read; “look what God is doing”. I can’t say I ever saw a huge arm with a hammer in its hand reaching down from the sky pounding in any nails. This one doesn’t share.

I looked down, there was a sparrow lying on its side, quivering, near death. The birds fly along the ground this time of year, building nests from gathered material, and the robins are everywhere, always low, always skipping over the roads. Its eyes seemed to look up at me as I passed; I considered a rescue mission to a local vet but decided it was too far gone, still, at this moment, guilt ridden by my decision. There were two others, another sparrow and a red winged black bird lying in the grass just off the shoulder, and the remnants of a small turtle. I was shocked that this short section of road on this particular day was responsible for so many deaths; I suppose it’s just my own ignorance that prevented me from understanding how destructive we really are.

The trip back wasn’t nearly as painful as I expected, keeping to my leisurely pace and keeping my malodorous friend on the other side of the road, affording safe passage. I got back to the farm and my little shoe box and decided to keep going, at least to the crossing just north and the fire house, probably no more that another half mile.

The smell of freshly cut grass filled the pasture on the other side of the cemetery, with the tall clippings plainly visible in clumps. I was already thinking that I had done what I’d set out to do and could stop any time and walk back, but I continued, reaching my new goal and then circling the intersection, finally accelerating despite the slight pain in my knees and the tension developing in my calves. I walked the cemetery again to cool off a bit, soaked now, shedding my shirt, strolling behind the church, across the road, finally retrieving the keys from the seat of my car.

I showered and went off to the diner for breakfast, first driving up to the crossing and setting the car to zero again. I’d gone out close to ten, inspiring a confidence I’d never possessed, thinking that the half marathon, and perhaps a whole, before my fiftieth, was well within reach.

The Beginning

I actually didn’t begin my running career until the tender age of forty six. The dates are cloudy but I suspect that it was nearly six years after I’d abandoned my three pack a day habit, two years after I’d added thirty pounds to my midsection and lost of any kind of self esteem, disgusted with myself every time I passed a parked car or a storefront, always looking, always with disdain for what I had become.
There was a small gym not far from work, one built into an old, whitewashed, wooden, one story building. It seemed unthreatening but still a bit intimidating for a novice like myself, one who was not entirely proud of his current situation. I didn’t sign up that first day, venturing in after a wager with a friend who told me I would never take the initiative. It was three more days before I paid my thirty two dollars and scheduled my very first training session.
I wore my street clothes for the first couple of weeks, debating the longevity of this new routine, wondering if I had the determination and the stamina to fulfill this lifelong commitment.
I was still living with my wife and kids at the time but kept my new endeavor to myself, knowing that she would never accept any sort of deviation from what she considered to be “normal” behavior. Oddly enough, while dieting as well during this time she repeated over and over that what I really needed was exercise, condemning any attempt I made at weight loss. After four months and much derision, I finally admitted to her that I had joined a gym and that I was, in fact, working out almost every day in an effort to regain what was given to me at birth. She immediately leapt into one of her tirades, condemning the act and begging me to give up my membership, I’ll never understand..
I stopped in every morning at six, before my hour and a half drive to the new job, the one that was rapidly deteriorating; causing more aggravation than I thought was possible. I think it might have been the only thing that kept me alive during that year. I didn’t run in the beginning, I walked, walked on the treadmill and made use of the elliptical, never thinking that running was in my future, being told after my discs went out that running was actually out of the question, that the best I could do was stick to the recumbent bike, maybe that’s what inspired me.
It began simply as walking at a somewhat more brisk pace, occasionally breaking out into a jog until eventually I could string together a couple of miles.
It was another year and a series of back strengthening exercises and the graduation to a larger facility, having taken off twenty five of the thirty, no longer ashamed, no longer intimidated by the guys who appeared to be made out of brightly illustrated inner tubes.
There was a sign on the glass door, a two mile run in town before the St. Patrick’s Day parade. I thought I might try it, gradually adding longer runs to my workouts. I had a month to prepare.

First Race

This was the first time for me, I was easily half an hour early but I wanted to be sure and find a suitable place to park. I had no idea how this was going to end so there was at least a little comfort in knowing that my car was safely tucked away on a side street. I emptied everything that might have been in my pockets except a lone car key and the fifteen dollars I’d need for the entry fee and slowly wandered the couple of blocks to the registration tables, paid, and picked up the square of reinforced paper with whichever number happened to be printed on it. There was a box of safety pins at the corner of the table. I helped myself to four.
The day was chilly. It had rained earlier so the streets were wet and slick. I pinned the paper to my shirt and stayed in motion, walking back and forth across the yet to be closed street, keeping my eyes open for anyone I might know. After all, there were two or three thousand people here wearing the same numbered papers that I was. I was certain I’d see at least one familiar face, and did eventually see one, I didn’t know her name but we’d seen each other on the treadmills occasionally. We said hello and introduced ourselves. It was her first as well. We ran out of idle chatter fairly quickly and then went our separate ways.
I have no idea why I was so nervous. It was only a two mile run; I’d done it dozens of times, always alone, always indoors. Today the crowd surrounding me felt massive.
The starting gun was finally fired. As I moved along with the constantly thinning crowd I glanced along the sidewalks from time to time, listening to people cheering for someone in front of, or behind, or next to me. My confidence grew as I negotiated the short, mostly flat course, passing some and being passed by others. I was happy to be average, somewhere in the middle of the pack, finishing far from first, but nowhere near last.
I found the cigar smokers along the way to be offensive and incredibly inconsiderate, nearly gagging on the stench as I passed. They didn’t seem to understand that breathing is something of a necessity while running.
The last quarter mile or so was a steep decline, nearly pulling me along to the end where the official race clock was broken and read nothing. It didn’t matter, I came here with the purpose of finishing, not to compete.
Volunteers is silly green hats were handing out plastic medals to anyone who finished. I declined. It was enough for me to grab a bottle of water and walk the two miles back to my car, stopping briefly to watch my son as he passed by in the school’s marching band. I’d left before them in order to change and register. I had done what I’d set out to do and was halfway home before any of the other festivities began, stopping into the club to change back into my regular clothes and run a few other errands on the way home. When I arrived they were all at the counter having lunch. There was silence; again I was shunned, denied another meal as if I had just perpetrated some heinous criminal act.

Closer To Home

I’d been procrastinating for weeks, watching the heavy blonde pass my window in the mornings when I didn’t go in early. It was usually around eight when she went by, always starting off heading north. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her coming back the other way; I suppose I’m usually gone by then.
It was time for me to make the run to the crossroads and the bridge that would take me over the highway if I chose to continue, or the other that would bring me to the tracks. I would start across the street from my studio, just in front of the church, rather than driving somewhere first as I usually do, tossing my house keys onto the front seat of my car and putting my driver’s license into my pocket just in case. I read a story once about a man who was hit by a car while jogging and was without identification, leaving his family to wonder for days what had happened to him.
The farm was first where I picked up an aroma that I couldn’t quite make out; it could have been the freshly tilled soil that was now furrowed and ready for planting, or maybe the blend of the hundreds of potted flowers that were left out on benches and tables that were for sale when the single string was removed from the entrance signaling that the stand was open for business. It would be a simple task to grab whatever one wanted during the night, but no one ever does.
I negotiated the first s curve where the lilacs that straddled the road and were so pungent just a few days ago were already faded and browning, their scent little more than a memory.
There is no real shoulder along most of this route, which is one of the reasons it has taken me so long to get started. I would have to rely on the kindness of the drivers passing by to steer away towards the center of the road so kept alert to the density of the nearby landscape in the event I had to dive into the shrubs to avoid a maniacal, neckless, anti-jogger in a diesel pick up. I was surprised how frequently cars passed each other in opposite directions at the precise moment they were passing me, almost as if I was a magnet that attracted this three way tryst.
I knew the first turn off was around a mile out and passed it soon enough with the bison ranch in mind for my midpoint, I had to at least get that far. I was fairly certain that I had clocked the second, larger intersection at two miles from home, but I really couldn’t remember. I was hoping the animals would be out grazing in the lower pasture by the road. I’d only passed them by at fifty or sixty so this would be a much more intimate exchange.

I felt the need to look down often as I moved between the asphalt and the somewhat softer packed gravel that was just wide enough at times to accommodate my strides, trying not to get caught on the edge, remembering the injury to my Achilles tendon while avoiding sticks on the trail through the woods.
The variety of trash that lined the drainage ditches was becoming a little unsettling; empty cigarette packs, beer cans, wrappers and bags with store names printed on them, a cover plate from a wall outlet. I don’t understand why people can’t wait until they get home to dispose of these things in their own household cans. I suppose it’s just laziness or a mild disdain for their own piece of the planet and their neighbors who then find it necessary to remove the debris from their lawns.
The ranch turned out to be a bit farther than I expected and there was no herd to be seen. I was only mildly disappointed, there will be other days. I’d been out for a while now and was uncertain of the distance to the second crossing but by the end of the ranch I could see the curve in the distance that I though might bring me close, the one near the church that was also utilized as a synagogue on Saturday mornings. I thought it was a nice gesture that they shared the little hall. I discovered when I neared that I was right; the triangular intersection was within reach, visible as I approached the parking lot. I have driven this route nearly every morning for the last seven months so should be somewhat knowledgeable of the various features and the distances between them.
Having reached my destination I headed for home, picking up the pace just a little, anxious now to be within that last mile where comfort returns.
The bridge over the stream offered the sounds of the nearby, low waterfall but as I crossed I saw a second, farther upstream that I had never noticed from my car. This was where, only briefly during the run, the traffic eased enough to allow the sounds of the birds and the gentle slap of my sneakers on the pavement to dominate.
I was nearly home when a semi pulled over right in front of me to let the line of cars behind pass, leaving no room between his trailer and the waist high grass, forcing me into the center of the road.
As I came to my studio I slowed to a walk and continued in order to cool down a bit, after sweating for a while now and finally removing the long sleeve jersey that I’d worn over my tee shirt thinking that it might have been appropriate attire when I’d begun.
I thought a walk through the cemetery might be just enough and as I moved along the side road I began to read the names and dates on the head stones, many going back to the mid eighteen hundreds while others were quite recent, even a few with only the dates of birth, waiting for those of their owners’ deaths to be engraved. I suppose it’s prudent to be prepared but I’m not certain I would want my name on one of those quite yet. It occurred to me as I walked that this was it, this is all there is, reduced to a skeleton and a stone marker, existing within a span of time that seems as brief and as fleeting as the fragrant blossoms of the lilacs, although, admittedly, the flowers have the opportunity for a repeat performance next year while we have only one chance.

Deception

I decided that while I was here it was important to run the strip in its entirety as I had the Embarcadero in San Francisco a couple of weeks earlier, not really knowing how far that might be. It didn’t matter, only that something inside saw this as another opportunity to do something I had never done, and something I might never do again, another challenge.
I walked the winding, narrow, terra cotta colored path from the lobby to the sidewalk through the thickly torsoed, stunted palms, brushing my hand over one of the coarse trunks in an attempt to determine its authenticity. My hotel was nearly at the north end and I knew from past descents into the airport that the southern most and the last of the casinos bordered the edge of the runways.
I got up to speed quickly, no longer concerned with my athletic abilities, and moved past the nearest resort, the one that I’d stopped into last night out of sheer boredom and left an hour later with an extra hundred and forty, a rare victory in a town that exists purely for defeat, knowing that I would return the ill gotten cash to its rightful owners before my short visit was through.
The structure is vast; with three rectangular, white towers and a glistening, red quartz pavillion behind that is substantial enough to demonstrate the effects of aerial perspective as clearly as the surrounding mountains.
The blocks run the full length of each sprawling behemoth and the street curves just enough to make my final destination impossible to see.
A massive open pit behind a tarp covered fence was next, just to my right, where the smell of raw sewage permeated the air, and although the sidewalk is well maintained, hand mopped daily, the narrow grassy area just off to the side is littered with broken bottles, discarded plastic yard glasses spewing festively striped drinking straws, business cards and flyers featuring prostitutes who are probably pictured as far more attractive then they actually are, and the dispelled fantasies of instant fortune and the hopes of an end to lives of mediocrity.
The majority of the trash cans that line the streets spill over with Martini glasses and smell of rancid cocktails and stale vomit, quite distant from the odors of freshly baked bread and frying bacon that accompanied me on my journey towards Fisherman’s Wharf.
Near the heart of the strip, where the largest crowds will travel in drunken hoards during the evening hours, the cross streets are fenced and the only way to keep moving is via escalators and overhead bridges. This was certainly a new experience but I never hesitated, scaling the moving steel treads and quickly maneuvering through the tunnels and landings that led back to ground level.
I passed them all, Caesar’s Palace, Circus Circus, Wynn, Treasure Island, all of the bronze statuary that isn’t, the figures that aspire to simulate Carrarra marble but are nothing more than Styrofoam and stucco, the Eiffel Tower, Chrysler Building, Statue of Liberty and the Sphinx, all on the same avenue, the fountains that dance and the lure of gold leaf and grandeur that drag travelers into its jaws, only to spit them back onto the pristine walkways when they are no longer useful.
I passed more than one, lying on the sidewalk just after dawn, trying to shake off the shame and the loss and the embarrassment, only here these things are far less important than the next drink, and the next bet, and the next seduction, this is what they are here for.
One was dressed a beige suit while his friend was unreserved about belittling him, shouting at him until he got to his feet, which appeared doubtful; another was a woman, fetus-like on the sidewalk while a man sat very close by on an inverted, white five gallon pail holding his head in his hands. They probably had a room somewhere but never stood a chance of finding or reaching it.
I got to the end and crossed, heading back on the other side. The trip so far had been quite a bit longer than I expected as I once again crossed paths with other runners, and once again waved without response, without eye contact. I seriously doubt that I can possibly be that offensive in appearance or as menacing as I seem to be.
The Heavenly Bliss Wedding Chapel fell somewhere near the middle of my return trip; a small circular building where one could not only marry, but purchase discount Grand Canyon helicopter tour tickets, pick up souvenirs and T shirts, and gain internet access for only twenty five cents per minute.
Back past the Riviera and pedestrians wielding open beers and half filled plastic cocktail glasses, while couples sat at outdoor concrete tables with Bloody Mary’s in hand.
As I finally neared my hotel, moving along the sign on the fence advertising the three million dollar condos that would soon be available, I spotted another rectangle displaying the toll free number for reporting excessive dust from the seemingly untamable construction, the only law that appears to exist here or is in any way enforced.
I didn’t stop until I reached the glass doors to the lobby, slowing enough to allow them to slide open, welcoming me back to the sanctuary of one of the few structures that doesn’t contain a casino… or a restaurant (food is an afterthought on the strip, but alcohol is complimentary as long as you’re playing) and the quiet solitude of my eighteenth floor room.
I’d finished what I had set out to do and began preparing myself for the day ahead, the convention center and the clients, the inevitable errands that would be required of me, the union labor, and my selfish wishes that once all involved were satisfied, I could walk out the door for the last time and would never have to return to this place of unbridled deceit, where the untruths and the greed of corporate empires hide behind their fiberglass idols and theatrical facades.

Another Place

Convinced that there was no possibility of a reasonable or rational outcome from this poorly planned and absolutely absurd attempt at family, I decided once I got started that I wasn’t going to be all that concerned about being late for breakfast. This was an opportunity that I will most likely never see again, and even if I ever do, may not possess the ability to take advantage of it. There were a few tourists milling in the lobby as I moved through the cavernous, marble clad and crystal chandeliered space, over to the right doors where the square, silver handicapped button could be depressed and the glass would open gracefully and invitingly. Half a block to Mission and then a left towards the water, getting up to speed quickly, maybe moving little too fast I thought, I’d better take it easy, at least for the first ten blocks or so, being that I had no fixed distance or destination in mind.
It was Saturday morning and the streets were quiet, sparsely populated by a scattering of homeless pushing weary shopping carts festooned with overstuffed and weathered, black plastic trash bags. Another lay on the sidewalk, up against a polished façade, shrouded in a tattered and dirty, lime green blanket. A prep cook all in white loaded boxes of produce into his kitchen while others took squeegees to storefront glass and hosed down the sidewalks.
I’d never run in a city before, any city. This was a new game, trying to maintain forward momentum while constantly scouting for safe passage through intersections, occasionally changing course when the hand was red and the L.E.D. readout ticked toward zero, other times accelerating to a sprint in an impromptu duel with the cross traffic.
It’s only nine or ten blocks to the Embarcadero, we had all bused there yesterday afternoon for a dinner that in many ways foreshadowed the one that was to follow the next evening, as well as the day that preceded it. I thought for a moment about going the other way, out towards the old neighborhood, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen blocks, but the thought passed as quickly as it had come, that place held no nostalgia, I needed the bay as my companion.
After crossing the four lane thoroughfare, the median and the trolley car tracks, I turned right at the water’s edge and headed for the Bay Bridge. It didn’t look to be more than a mile or two away. As I jogged alongside the concrete seating, decorated with bronze turtles and crabs, the rising sun settled into the center of the arc of the bridge’s suspension cables, like a fiery marble pulled back in a slingshot, poised to be released.
Under the massive structure and then another half mile and a lap around a large, asphalt lot that jutted into the bay where a few slept in their aging, rusted cars, occasionally running the engine to fight off the chill of the morning. A practice I’m not entirely unfamiliar with.
I thought this might make an appropriate mid point and started back the way I had come, passing others along the way moving in the opposite direction, sometimes waving or nodding, never garnering a response, they all seemed emotionless, robotic, looking only straight ahead, being certain that any eye contact was kept out of the equation.
Maybe one block farther than I had started and I could make my way back to the hotel on the red brick sidewalks of Market Street.
A farmers market was setting up under an array of pop up tents just outside the recently renovated Ferry Building. As I moved past I regretted not having a dollar that I could toss onto the table in exchange for a peach that was perched at the top of one of the displays.
Market Street came and went. I caught a glimpse of the Golden Gate in the distance, canopied by the thick band of clouds that has probably always hung in that particular spot and will probably never leave. Fisherman’s Wharf became my new destination, probably not as far as Ghirardelli Square, that would get me into the hills, Pier Forty Five, the last one, and one of the orchestra members that symphonically contributed to my demise and subsequent reincarnation, I wanted to see it again, no longer as a threat, no longer as something that tortured, but as nothing more than a hollow shell. It seemed distant but at this particular moment I felt as if I had just begun my journey and could go on indefinitely.
I was admiring the row of beefy looking palms standing motionless in a row along the center median when I heard their calls, pulling me off course and onto one of the wooden piers that go a little way out into the bay. The slap of my sneakers on the concrete changed to a dull, hollow thud as I made my way passed a woman in one of the turnouts engaged in Tai Chi. I spotted them off to my right before I was halfway out, easily a hundred. Sea lions lounging on the low, floating docks below, their barks growing louder as I approached. I couldn’t help but smile as I turned and headed back to continue on my chosen course.
The odor of frying bacon invaded my senses for the second time as I passed one of the bakeries near the wharf, just shy of my destination. When finally arriving I did a kind of rain dance, running in circles in front of the locked, glass doors a couple of times, attempting to make out the silhouette of my former nemesis. I couldn’t and didn’t particularly care, not wanting to dwell here, now moving with the bay to my left and the Bay Bridge once again in my vision. There was no way for me to judge how far I’d gone, only by the amount of time I’d been out, and I wouldn’t know this until getting back to the hotel, not that it really mattered, just curious.
I caught sight of the clock that decorated the central tower of the Ferry Building, the hands on the front were obviously out of sync, the face on the side reading a hair before eight. At my usual pace I’d be near seven miles with at least one still to go. I felt comfortable, undaunted, barely sweating in the cool, damp, morning air. Back to Market and across the tracks where a small craft fair was being assembled under its own variety of temporary shelters. I paid it little attention as I ran through the center, speeding up perceptibly, wincing just a little as I passed the tables filled with ceramics and jewelry. The aroma of bacon returned three blocks down, inspiring thoughts of breakfast, then back to Fourth Street and another left that would bring me to the hotel, not slowing until reaching the front door and opting to pass it by in favor of a slower walk around the block to cool down just a little, stopping by a corner lamp post to stretch my back.
Up to the room and a quick shower before joining the others in the second floor restaurant where the two boys were already running wild, unsupervised and unchallenged, through the tables and the planters, disturbing enough to drive other patrons to move to more distant corners.