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.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
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 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.
Monday, June 4, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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