One minute, you’re doing the math. You ran 12 miles in the morning. Maybe another 8 in the p.m. because you want to move up in the standings. Everything feels good. The world revolves around this project, no matter how silly it looks from the outside.
The next minute, you’re sitting in an E.R. room with a friend and have no idea what the future will look like. Everything feels bad. The world revolves around this project, no matter how hopeless it looks from the outside.
And still you sit there, thinking maybe if you get up early enough, you can get some miles in tomorrow morning before the chaos continues.
“One final paragraph of advice: do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am – a reluctant enthusiast… a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves for pleasure and adventure.’
— edward paul abbey
—
That’s me. I pretend to be an ultrarunner. I have a singlet I haven’t washed in 30 years, the latest trendy “transcend distance” shoes, two running caps that had seen better days 10 years ago. Still, I am a reluctant enthusiast.
I can go for about 10 miles before the question starts to pop up in the part of my head not trying desperately to figure out who sings that Madison Cunningham song (hint: it’s Madison Cunningham): Why am I doing this?
Over the past few days, I’ve fallen into the two-a-day trap, the perfect excuse to cut the morning run short with the promise of trying again later. Which is always a great theory as long as later never comes. At which point, you’re just tired.
Save part of your time for pleasure and adventure, Mr. Abbey said. But I thought this WAS my pleasure and adventure. I slowly, steadily feel myself beginning to burn out. But didn’t Mr. Young say that’s better than fading away? Rock and roll will never die. I’m not sure that’s the case with me.
Is it possible to run without an AI coach? I suspect it’s easier than running without a pre-run chocolate doughnut (don’t tell Mo.) I find myself missing that virtual kick in the butt, the need to run longer than I want to because a ruthless cyber overlord will frown otherwise. I am a reluctant enthusiast.
So here I am, no schedule, no plan, no guardrails. Just a sneaking suspicion that tomorrow I’ll wake up too early and run too much, because that’s what I always do. Nobody said running was supposed to make sense. Field testing seems to confirm it.
One final paragraph of advice: Don’t work for someone you despise with every fiber of your being. Work for the good guys instead, even if it’s only as a part-time crusader. We need more monkey wrench gangs in the world.
Or not. Life is like a trail run whose little ribbons marking the course were stolen long ago by the anarchists. We’re all left to find a path as best we can as things fall apart.
And so I’ll go out again tomorrow, hoping I don’t miss the right turn onto the Ruidoso trail and the warning signs of heat stroke. I’ll worry about the runaway train of AI and an increasingly authoritarian government and the insanity that will prevail as the two are increasingly intertwined. And now the guy in charge of destroying the planet wants an AI Force modeled after the Space Force? How could we let that happen? Is there nothing else to slap a gold coating on?
“The duty of a patriot is to protect his country from its government,” Mr. Abbey said. Do something. Anything. Hello, it’s me.
But I’m just a tired old man, and I have no fight left in me. Someone else can save the world. I’m just worried about my singlet hanging on for another decade of no washing before we call it quits. Another 10 miles. Maybe I’ll bring Madison Cunningham along, something to fill the void.
I’m trying to break the 15-minute mile on the SCC track. Josh Kerr recently uncorked a 3:42.66 to shatter the world record, so 14:59 isn’t too much to ask, is it?
Apparently so.
Another 3.6 miles, still locked into 15:30s. Maybe it’s the shoes. I’m wearing the Escalante Racers, but they’re zero drop. Maybe my legs need a little dropping?
I mentally sort through the choices as I meander around the track. The Mount to Coasts don’t seem very fast. You would think the Hyper Speeds would be speedy, but mostly they’re hype. And I could break out the waffle trainers, which are undeniably fast but feel like my feet are in a vice, and not in a good way. Plus, I would want waffles. Mmmmmm. Waffles. Dammit.
Stupid shoes. Holding me back.
And then.
A distinguished gentleman passes me wearing Converse All Stars. He’s one of those old guys who shimmy at a 12 minute pace, flying along despite looking like he’s just out for a stroll. Which I suppose he is.
And I begin to think that, with apologies to Spike Lee, it might not be the shoes at all.
“Many can argue; not many converse,” Amos Bronson Alcott may or may not have said once. I have no idea who Amos Bronson Alcott was. Likely another alter ego of Spike Lee.
But you can’t argue with converse when a guy is sailing around the track in black high-tops. Mostly because you’ll never catch up to him.
There will come a time gigantic Waves will crush the junk that I have saved When the moon explodes or floats away I’ll lose the souvenirs I made La la la…
— Frederick Mark Linkous
—
Summer in Phoenix is like living in a pizza oven, except you don’t get pizza afterwards. When the low rarely drops below 90 and the high reaches a level that can’t be measured with conventional meteorological devices, running outside can be tricky.
We have a lot of dummies who go out on the trails undertrained and underhydrated in the dog days, leading to constant rescues that put first responders in peril. As a result, several of our most popular trails are closed when things get too toasty.
That’s an annoyance for those of us who have spent years acclimating and know how to take care of ourselves. Stan Fletcher said it best in his Instagram post in late June.
The bottom line: People who don’t know better ruin it for those of us who do.
So what’s left when Camelback and Piestewa are closed? The trusty trails of South Mountain, of course. Rugged, exposed, desolate. But not a problem for those of us who know our limits.
That’s where Stan went Saturday. The beloved National Trail. Ridiculously hot day, but he posted last month that when he hikes “I take 5-6 liters of water, depending on my rig. I’ve never felt the slightest bit faint or sick in any way.”
I’m with him. I’ve been out on the trails in the summer a bazillion times. Just a matter of listening to your body and pacing yourself. I think of running in the heat like altitude training in the desert. If you can get out there in 110 degrees, then October’s races are a breeze.
A hiker for 30 years, he set out at 5 a.m. His family lost contact with him that afternoon, and reported him missing.
A cyclist found Stan’s body Saturday evening alongside the trail. No official cause yet, but investigators said the circumstances appeared consistent with a heat-related or medical emergency. Richard “Stan” Fletcher was 61.
Today wasn’t quite as hot, thanks to an overnight thunderstorm. I walked fearlessly into the 100 degree heat, now with humidity in the mix, for my morning run.
Which was inside the cool climes of the SCC gym.
I guess Stan died doing what he loved, and there’s much to be said for that. But I’d rather put it off for 10 more years, or at least until the 12 hour run in Buckeye at the end of August. Surely the weather will be pleasant by then.
Mostly, I am reminded that things happen. You do your best, you roll the dice, you cross your fingers. I hope they have great trails wherever Stan is now.
And I hope that when you die, you get pizza afterwards.
I dreamed about killing you again last night And it felt alright to me
— the prophet tweedy
—
The thought comes to me midway through the second mile:
I really, really, really want to kill the old British guy.
Is there a law against murder? Might there be a loophole because we’re on the Salt River Pima/Maricopa reservation? Surely they have no love for the white man, and this one is particularly white.
He’s in an annoying black and white vertical stripe oxford shirt, khaki shorts, hands clasped behind his back, moving at 2 mph. He’s talking loudly to a woman who appears enthralled by his high decibel monologue delivered in that Monty Python accent. AND HE INSISTS ON USING THE RUNNING LANE.
There are two signs posted on the little track. They say “Outside Lane for Running Only.” I’m not sure how that translates across the pond, but hopefully it’s something like “Outside Lane for Running Only Yes That Means You, You Pompous Bastard.”
I’m not even sure why this bothers me so much. Maybe if he carried a dead parrot. It’s not hard for me to move to the inside lane for a moment, and it’s not like I’m flying around the track anyhow. I’m not even sure my 3.5 miles at 15:30 pace qualifies as running. Perhaps I covet a black and white vertical stripe oxford shirt. All I know is it drives me insane.
And so I plot devious ways to kill him, passing the time as I meander around the tiny loops, pretending I’m Raymond Reddington, or possibly Pee-wee Herman before he got killed off. How could you kill off Pee-wee Herman? Old British Guy is going on my Blacklist.
What if the AI coach is right and I’m wrong? What if I can’t do this? Then what’s left? Walking in the outside lane, I suppose. I shall commence working on my accent.
And so another run is in the bank, the British guy is sadly undeterred, and I will dream about killing him again tonight. Or maybe his parrot.
Tuan: So what have you been doing? Bud: I told you, going to the wakes and funerals of strangers. Tuan: How incredibly weird. Like “Harold and Maude.” If memory serves, Maude took her own life at the end of the film. Bud: Let’s hope I’m Harold. Tuan: If not, maybe I can have your office chair?
—
My gym advertises itself as being “state of the art.”
My gym also uses a drawing of a 1965 Nokia phone with a little antenna on its signs on the track.
This sign drives me nuts every time I pass it. And because it’s a track built for garden gnomes, I pass it a lot. Like 38 times today alone. 3.4 miles at same ol’ 15:30 pace. Someday.
Oh, sure, the silly phone icon is annoying. And yes, EVERYONE except me on the track seems to be constantly using their phones. But that’s not the worst part.
AP STYLE SAYS CELLPHONE IS ONE WORD, PEOPLE!!! HAVE YOU NO RESPECT FOR AP STYLE???
Oh, well. My subscription ran out a long time ago anyhow.
I have been reading a book about an obituary writer who accidentally published his own obit. Hijinks ensued. Funny how all this stuff seems to come together. My love of “Harold and Maude,” my state-of-the-art AI coach who keeps pointing out that my fitness numbers would indicate that I’m dead, my half-hearted defense that I’m not. A Yusuf Islam refrain:
Trouble, oh trouble please be kind I don’t want no fight And I haven’t got a lot of time
I think I’m feeling better after the infusion (cue John Lennon singing “can’t get much worse”), so here goes nothing. Worst case scenario: A guy once wrote a touching obituary for me that’s somewhere on the old blog, so it should still be a fitting memorial. Although I increasingly realize there’s not much to memorialize. “He was a weird little man obsessed with AP style and an irrational fear of cows while running” and then pad it out with, um, huh. I guess that’s it.
Cue up the Cat Stevens soundtrack. Hit the play button.
I’ve seen your eyes and I can see death’s disguise Hangin’ on me Hangin’ on me
Sing a song for Harold the Orphan ‘Cause there’s not much time for him now He’s destined to be a veal cutlet He’d rather just be a cow
— me
—
Easy 2 miles at the gym, if a feeling of impending death caused from the after-effects of iron infusion no. 2 can be considered easy. I vaguely remember thinking this was supposed to make me feel BETTER.
Hilariously enough, someone asked today on the ultrarunning subreddit what one should do when confronting cows in the wild.
Clearly, I have started a trend. Singing seemed to be a popular answer. I hope they enjoy the Harold the Orphan song.
Some dream of India, where their cousins are stars But they don’t like the crowds, so they stay where they are
— john gorka
—
Can cows climb stairs?
I’m running on the little upstairs track at SCC when it hits me. What if?
There’s only one staircase. The track is three lanes wide, with no exit points. If they make it up here, I’m a goner for sure.
The worst part: I feel great after infusion no. 2, so they will be killing me just as a begin my dramatic comeback. Cows don’t care.
I once wrote a song about a cow named Harold who grew up on the farm, oblivious to the fact that he was destined to be a veal cutlet. I suppose this is payback.
Did I mention I felt great? Three miles, 15:30 pace. I’m slowly figuring out ways to trick Coach Benji, who has these crazy ideas about “moderation” and “avoiding certain death.” I’m guessing some sort of liability concern baked into the program. Little does he know.
First session of lifting weights was a rousing success. I soon will look like Charles Atlas, if Charles Atlas is a scrawny elderly gentleman with not a muscle to be found.
We hit 114 degrees today, so I’m counting the walk from the truck to the track as bonus heat training. Who thought it was a good idea to build civilization here? Probably cows.
Time for another visit to the countryside. I wonder if they make running cattle prods.
Carl Arrington: “What were the skies like when you were young?”
Rickie Lee Jones: “They went on forever — We lived in Arizona, and the skies always had little fluffy clouds in them … there were lots of stars at night. And when it would rain, it would all turn — it — They were beautiful, the most beautiful skies …” —
The antelope family watches me from afar as I pull on my shoes for a 2 miler on the soaked path after last night’s deluge.
Mama bird gives me the stink eye as she waits for me to move away from their nest so the babies can have breakfast.
The sky, last night’s thunderstorm a memory, sparkles with a palette of blue shaded with a Rickie Lee Jones memory.
The thermometer reads 65 degrees, a glorious respite from the triple-digit torture of July in Phoenix. A view that looks like it needs to be framed.
The silence.
That perfect, prolonged silence where nothing in the world exists except us.
Mo sits atop the picnic table, drinking her second cup of coffee and gazing into the distance.
— lyle lovett, after his leg was smashed by a bull in a pen of the family ranch.
—
I’ve probably seen the video too many times. Old guy, minding his own business, thrown 400 feet in the air by a bison in Yellowstone. He did nothing to provoke it other than wearing suspenders, which I suppose would warrant a friendly nudge toward fashion updating, but certainly not the rampage that ensued.
So I’m a little nervous going down the tiny dirt road. Middle of nowhere, nobody around for miles, no escape route to be had, and fearsome beasts in the distance.
Still, miles is miles, and I have to get some in for the new AI coach, whom I already despise. If I wanted to be bossed around by a faceless tyrant, I would have stayed in journalism. Oh sure, Mr. Remote Editor, it’s important to YOU that your city’s name be spelled correctly in 84 point type on the front page, but I’m juggling a lot of papers here. Yes, I’m wearing suspenders. Why do you ask?
I’m about a mile from the cabin when my blood turns cold. No I don’t know what that means, and I have no actual means of testing it.
A TREE HAS BEEN KNOCKED DOWN TO SLOW MY APPROACH TOWARD THE KILLER KOWS!!!
My mind races for reasons that the heinous herd up ahead might be plotting my demise.
The little metaphorical lightbulb appears over my head: that “Twister” movie!!!
I always howl with glee when Helen Hunt yells “We got cows!” as the poor bovine flies by on its way to oblivion, or possibly the Outback Steakhouse. Clearly it’s time for payback.
And then I see him up ahead.
A huge black bull is near the road waiting to pounce, in the same fashion as a panther waiting on dinner. He’s low to the ground, hiding in the high grass, as lean and mean as you can be when you spend the day sitting next to the food trough.
He masks his snarl, pretending to be totally oblivious to me, clearly waiting for me to turn my back so he can send me flying. Do they keep records for how high people go in these things? If you’re involved in a Guinness event is there actual Guiness to be had?
Another cow in the background may or may not be wielding an iPhone to record the event.
I react the only way I know how:
I scream like a little girl (sorry, little girls) and break into a world-record sprint.
Which lasts for about 100 yards until I remember we’re at 8,000 feet elevation, I’m not wearing track spikes, and I’m an extremely slow 70-year-old. I collapse in the dirt, lying on my back with my feet sticking up in the West Texas armadillo tradition. Cows respect these things.
Luckily, the bull seems to have lost interest when he saw I wasn’t wearing suspenders. The other cow snaps a photo that he will no doubt use to create an AI image of Trump and the FIFA chief photobombing us, and we part ways.
Finishing my stroll, I barricade the gate on the fence surrounding our little cabin. I sink into the chair on the porch while the poor bird who’s trying to build a nest (in July? Reincarnated journalist who could never make a deadline?) and pull up YouTube on my phone.
As the sun begins to fade, I spend the rest of the afternoon watching that “Twister” scene. Over and over and over again. I got your cows, pal.
I wonder if Outback Steakhouse delivers this far …
May your hands always be busy May your feet always be swift May you have a strong foundation When the winds of changes shift May your heart always be joyful And may your song always be sung May you stay forever young Forever young, forever young May you stay forever young.
— the prophet dylan
—
yin:
2.7 miles today at 14:58 pace on the new plan. I wish you had been there.
Happy birthday,
Your dear and worthless brother
yang:
“If I knew a guy named Gary who had a birthday today, I would say that I hope he had a good day. If I knew that guy, I would tell him how privileged I am to be loved by him. I would tell him how happy and proud I am to be his friend.
Dynamitin’ depot, bricks are pourin’ down Cost your reputation if they catch you hangin’ round Ev’ry choice you look at serves but to confuse Reckon you could call it the United States Blues Oh baby, One more Saturday night Un huh, One more Saturday night
OK, maybe the greatest revelation in my life would have been better spent on a plan for world peace or how to work Netflix, but epiphanies are where you find them.
And so I have a new training plan and a new pack of iron percolating in my veins. One more infusion, one more three days of living hell, one more Saturday night. Except it’s Sunday.
I only learned yesterday about One More Saturday Night and the fisticuffs Weir and Hunter had over the lyrics. I have led a sheltered life.
In an effort to return from a brief foray to hell, I ran today in the sheltered confines of the SCC track. 2 miles at 16:10 pace. I normally wouldn’t come here on a Sunday, because it’s soccer day at the Lasso loop and it makes for a spectator sport while running despite the heat, but Mo has been taking the whole death by running thing a bit more seriously for the past few days, and I was afraid she’d catch me.
Sundays are a different beast at the track. It’s only open for five hours, and every Serious Runner in North America appears to be getting in their long runs here. But that made for a spectator sport in itself. Maybe someday I’ll get back to where I can call myself a runner as well. Dramatic sigh.
I am cautiously optimistic that this will work, in the same way I maintain hope for Mideast peace and Pancakes in a Jug. It’s a bit less optimistic (“more realistic”) than my previous iteration, and has a lot of colorful graphs. Who could doubt a training plan with colorful graphs.
So if I can just make it past the second infusion, and survive the three days after, and gradually build up some iron reserves again, and somehow remove the image of the little orange man trying to pose with the Spanish team at the awards ceremony, this might just work.
Or it might not.
Only one way to find out.
Reckon you could call it the United States Blues.
One more Saturday night.
On a Sunday …
p.s. dear Worker Power solicitor: standing at our door staring at us saying you will not leave until we agree to join your group might not be the most effective manner of soliciting members. If I wanted to be intimidated into political change I would’ve just bought a red hat. Maybe if you offered Pancakes in a Jug to new recruits?
I used to be young I used to understand I used to be strong as any man
— the prophet mcmurtry
—
If you run ultras, you know about ultrasignup.com. It’s the place where they sign you up for races while tacking on a hefty fee for themselves for no particular reason, and then list your results.
My first event was in 1992, and I’ve posted a lot of results since then. But in the 31 races I show up in there (I’ve run many more; this joint just lists races they’re affiliated with), I have always been proud that I have had only one DNF.
DNF stands for “did not finish,” shorthand for “I suck.” Hmmm. Maybe longhand, since I suck is actually shorter. Whatever.
And so it was with great shame that I saw last night’s concert has been added to the list.
Mo didn’t think I should go, which of course meant I HAD to go, since I’m a guy. Not a smart guy, mind you.
The show was at a tiny club, with 300 people jammed in, and enough oxygen for 200 of them. We were at the very front, standing in front of the PA and feeling like 16-year-olds again. Until the point where I felt like a 70-year-old.
To my credit, I made it OK through the opening act, BettySoo, who is a fine performer and has an old Gibson I would have tried to steal were I in any sort of shape to make a run for it. James joined her for three songs, so I had something in the bank when the brief intermission came up.
Standing packed into a small space might not have been the best idea for recovering. But I was determined. Until I wasn’t.
Even when the main event started, I knew I was done. That feeling you get when you’re cooked at mile 20 and the biggest climb is still ahead. I guess I felt alright except that my brain was increasingly fuzzy, I had a terrible headache, my heart was erratic, I ached all over, and I was having an increasingly difficult time maintaining the “standing upright” thing that concert protocol dictates.
After six songs, I told Mo I needed to go. She looked at me with a mix of concern and relief. I don’t think she’s much of a McMurtry fan. We shuffled out during the intro to Choktaw Bingo (We saw a sign that said “hitchhikers may be escaping inmates, but we didn’t see any so I guess the inmates caught them.” And that was that.
Six songs. The equivalent of dropping at 15 miles of a 50 miler. The walk of shame past the front door. The silence of the night in the parking lot with a hint of music still floating through the air. The shame of the DNF, unable to make it to the end. No concert T-shirt, the equivalent of a finisher’s medal.
But the next day, I’m not that bummed. Along with ruining everything else, the internet has destroyed the concert experience.
I’ve seen him playing live on YouTube a bazillion times. I’ve listened to the live version of the songs on Spotify until they have been burned into my brain. And because of setlist.fm, I already knew what songs he would be playing. So what’s the point? To confirm that he exists? To hear the same somgs played exactly the same way except at 100 decibels with a questionable sound mix?
What’s the point of real life when you can just enjoy it online?
And so there is is at the bottom of my ultrasignup list. July 17, 2026, DNF, 10 years after the Horseshoe Trail Run debacle. No, I don’t think he played at the Horseshoe Trail Run.
No run today. I appear to be dead. And I don’t want to risk a second consecutive DNF.
Still, I hope I get to see him again someday. I really want BettySoo’s guitar.
I see my father with his patience wearin’ thin Sometimes it bothers me to look so much like him There’s somethin’ hidin’ in that space beneath the stairs I’d try to find it, but my memory won’t go there
— james lawrence mcmurtry
—
The facts as we know them:
■ I struggled through 3 miles on Thursday.
■ I died after 2 miles today.
By my calculations, if I continue this trend I will be at minus 30 miles by the time the next race comes around. At least I will be well rested.
I’m pretty excited about the infusion after-effect. It feels vaguely like death, although I’ve never actually died so I’m not sure how it feels. But there are squirrels banging on me with ball-peen hammers, and not in a good way. And I get to do it again next week. Yay!
I don’t want to move. Or think. Or stand upright. Which can mean only one thing:
James McMurtry.
Longtime readers will recall that I’ve been a McMurtry fan since the George H.W. Bush presidency, although I’m guessing they didn’t hang out that much. I was only a lukewarm fan of McMurtry’s dad, despite Rick’s devotion. But when I first heard McMurtry the Younger, I was instantly hooked.
The son of an author, he was able to write tiny three-minute novels. The kind of song that would make you think you truly knew the person and hate when it ended. A singer/songwriter that made me realize that the craft was its own art form. I have listened to his music in heavy rotation since, and failed miserably trying to follow his path.
BUT I’VE NEVER SEEN HIM IN CONCERT!!!!!!!
It’s crazy. He arrived in Austin not long after I moved west. He used to play regularly at the Continental Club in Austin when we were living in Corpus. But he played late nights after the main act, which meant he went on stage around midnight. Corpus was a two-hour drive home. I always meant to do it someday, but you know how it is with somedays.
And then.
We were driving home from San Angelo on a Saturday. Passing Threadgill’s, a food joint with a little outdoor stage, there was a sign. McMurtry. Tonight. In four hours. Mo and I sat in the parking lot, looking at each other. This was the chance. Tickets available. Great location. Perfect starry night. But we were tired, the road went on forever, and there would be other days.
And then there weren’t.
We moved back to Phoenix. And then COVID moved everywhere. And there were no shows.
And then. Finally.
He was coming to our favorite little venue.
I had tickets. I also had a severely compromised immune system because I was going through chemo. We masked up. We drove to downtown Phoenix. We stood in the parking lot behind the venue. I gave Mo the Sad Eye. She gave me the Stink Eye. We went home.
And now, finally, he’s here again. Seems to be in fine form on this tour, toting a band with him. Playing in a tiny bar we love. Tickets in hand. Playlist serenading me all day.
And I feel like I’m dead. Damn squirrels.
I’m thinking there is a god and he’s pissed off at me because my band in high school used my Southern Baptist church’s youth center to practice and there may or may not have been the smell of an illegal substance left in the air. WHY CAN’T I SEE THIS GUY?
What to do?
We once went to see Jill Sobule in Tempe. She was booked at a heavy metal bar, which seemed odd for a folk singer, but we dutifully went, tickets in hand. Two large gentlemen with a plethora of tattoos and tasteful leather ensembles stood outside the chain-link fence that served as the entrance to the club. Music from one of the opening bands, a fine group of lads who appeared to be torturing animals at an extremely high decibel level, played inside. The woman famous for the pop tune “I Kissed a Girl,” armed only with a Martin backpacking guitar, was going to follow this?
As it turns out, no. A blackboard at the door said simply “JILL SOBULE CANCELED.”
I was crushed. I’ve always desperately wanted to see her. This had been my chance. But, of course, there would be other times.
And then she burned up in a random house fire.
And so we will go to see James McMurtry. Because music, like running, sometimes requires suffering. Because heroes are where you find them, even if its in a tiny dive bar on the wrong side of town. Because I’m so tired of being so tired.
Maybe this is the thing I need to get back on track.
Or maybe we’ll stand in the parking lot and go home.
It happens.
—
The black dog and the wanderin’ boy Don’t ever do any harm
Squirrels with ball-peen hammers, on the other hand …
It looks like sunny skies Now that I know you’re alright Time has left us Older And wiser I know I am
— melissa manchester and carole bayer sager
—
OK, so the iron infusion wasn’t quite the 21st century version of Lucy Ricardo’s Vitameatavegimen. I mustered a 3-mile stroll at 15:58 pace while looking for the fire alarm box to shut down the gym. And then the nice mechanic said that what I thought was a free tire alignment would cost $1,800. And then the orange man started blabbering. And then I lost the will to live.
And then Jami called.
I’m not sure how she ended up in my life. We worked together back in the days when there were things called “newspapers.” I’m an antisocial person by nature, but she never took no for an answer. How do people become friends? If I knew that, I would probably have some. But somehow, she snuck in one day and never left.
There’s something about her. A joy, a curiosity, a smile that lets you know she’s up to something. A laugh and a heart of gold, an unwavering belief in fighting the good fight against all odds, a wisdom that looks past the world’s horror and finds hope. Someone you’re lucky to somehow stumble across in a little office in a bad part of town between deadlines and crappy cups of coffee.
Sure, she once tried to shave my head, but she took me to the first Olympic beach volleyball matches and didn’t make me duck down when Karch Kiraly would glance in our direction. Life always balances out.
Mostly, she made me laugh. And think. And care. A lot.
We eventually went our separate ways, as journalists always do, losing touch and stashing the memories into the archive box to become faded and brittle with time.
But she refused to let that happen.
She would call and text and meet up for holidays. She was the best man/maid of honor/photographer/witness when Mo and I got married, flying from San Francisco to Phoenix to Flagstaff for the weekend. She came to cheer at a 12-hour race in the Bay Area, and brought a sign (laminated!) to the Phoenix Sufferfest. No, I didn’t drink H20. You have to draw the line somewhere.
Mostly, I know she’s there for me. She has always been there. And I’m sure she always will be. Except maybe for George Clinton shows. Did I mention you have to draw the line somewhere?
The world is a funny place. Eight billion people and change. What are the odds of finding this one person who could put up with me for so many years? I’m so lucky I can call her my friend.
I, of course, would never admit any of this to her. I am a guy. Awkward sideways hugs and sheepish mutterings. But maybe she knows all the same.
Time has left us older. And wiser. I know I am.
Now if I could just get a modicum of iron back in my body so I could live up to that sign. Run! Run! Run! Run!
If I leave you it doesn’t mean I love you any less Keep me in your heart for awhile
— warren william zevon
—
I’m hooked up to a needle and a bag of stuff that looks like it’s straight out of a Bela Lugosi movie.
And all I can think about is Jenny.
If you ever want to confront mortality on its home court, spend some time at an infusion center that deals mostly with cancer patients. The hours of tedium as toxic chemicals are pumped into bodies that are already under so much stress. The blank stares of four hours of hoping against hope. Nurses who seem a little TOO kind. What do they know that we don’t?
I’m one of the lucky ones, just here to get my iron topped off, no signs of the vermin making a return appearance so far. But others in my little cubicle corner aren’t so lucky.
Cancer is such an awful disease. One minute you’re living your life, not thinking about much of anything. The next, you’re in an office being told you should watch the Hallmark Christmas in July series because you’re unlikely to make it long enough to celebrate in December.
We still don’t know where all my iron went, but there are worse things in the world. Things that begin with the words Stage 4 and Inoperable and Terminal.
I was talking with a nurse who was trying to find my vein with the ultrasound gizmo. I noted that the joint was pretty empty today and speculated that maybe they had finally found a cure.
He just sighed. So many variations, so little time. He said there are new breakthroughs and new immunotherapies all the time, but it’s a cruel moving target. Breakthroughs will come too late for the people here.
Maybe if we thought more about death, we’d be more inclined to do something about it. But nobody wants to think about dying.
Which makes me think about Jenny.
We saw her just a couple of weeks ago. She seemed fine, although I didn’t pay much attention. No reason to. She would always be around.
And now she’s not.
She died on my birthday. Her body just shut down. Bodies are so complicated. Life is so delicate. Death is so final.
Why is saying goodbye so hard? I guess it’s a good thing, because it means you loved them. Everybody in the clinic today has somebody. They will eventually be saying goodbye, some much too soon. I guess the moral is to tell people you love them today. You don’t know if there will be a tomorrow.
Enjoy every sandwich, Mr. Zevon said. Although I had leftover salmon.
No run today. Mo googled the after-effects of the infusion and that was that. She seems to think “no exercise allowed” means you shouldn’t exercise. Weird. So the triumphant return will have to wait a day. I guess that’s a small price to pay. Although I hope Medicare pays most of it.
Safe travels, Jenny. I’m sorry I didn’t pet you more when I saw you last. I hope I see you on the other side. Maybe save me a sandwich …
We’re sitting in the oncologist’s office like we’ve done so many times before.
But this time, it feels different.
Mo stares anxiously at the door, pretending to be indifferent. She is a brilliant artist, but a lousy actor. She realizes that our entire future rests on the man who will be walking through the door any minute with the answer to a question both of us desperately want to know but dread finding out.
But first, a look back at yesterday.
I’m getting my blood drawn by some nice guy who is maybe 30 or so. Hard to say with the young whippersnappers these days.
As I sit in the too-high chair, wagging my feet, he notices my battered shoes.
“Are you a runner?” he asks.
Nothing good can come from a question like this. It generally requires “answers” and possibly “a conversation” and then all bets are off.
I mutter yes. Maybe that will be the end of it.
But no. He asks a curious question: “Which shoes do you run in? Brooks or Nikes?”
My mind races. It’s likely racing a 5K because we don’t have much time. He’s only aware of two shoe brands? How can I possibly answer this?
If I tell him the truth, that I run in Mount to Coast H1s, Escalante racers and an occasional guilty pleasure in the Asics Hyper Speeds, I will either embarrass him or be rejected as an idiot. Does he not realize there are a billion brands of shoes these days? And why Brooks? BROOKS? What to do? This calls for a diversion.
“Mostly, I just walk,” I say, brilliantly skirting the issue altogether.
He frowns and jabs the needle into the crook of my arm, missing the vein entirely. It’s not a pleasant sensation. I wonder if it was an accident.
“But when I run, I have a pair of Nike waffle trainers,” I hastily add.
He lights up. Nikes! Just as he suspected. He appears pleased.
(side note: I must admit that only recently did I learn that Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers got his name because he started out as a phlebotomist and shortened it to Flea because the full name is too hard to spell. That’s why rock stars are better off with names like Chad Smith. But I digress.)
I don’t mention that I took the Nikes out for exactly one run and hated them so much that they were immediately banished to the back of the closet. What’s important is that we have bonded. And that he finds a vein. Which he does.
He goes on to tell me that he runs in Nikes as well and his friend runs in Brooks and sucks and Air Jordans are a nice-looking shoe but you can’t play basketball in them because they make your feet hurt (which would likely come as a surprise to Michael Jordan) and sometimes he just wears Converse and isn’t sure if he likes basketball or running more and how the Freaking Hell can he talk so much when a blood draw only takes 30 seconds?
And that is how I found out I have no iron in my blood.
No idea if he rigged the test because he figured out I was wearing Altras so I had to be lying.
But that’s not why we’re here.
We’re waiting for the Baby Doc to arrive.
The 15 minutes of sitting in the little room is excruciating. It seems to be even worse for Mo than it is for me.
So it’s with a mixture of relief and panic when the doorknob slowly turns and he walks in.
As soon as we see him, we know the answer.
Which is this:
Pink.
The Baby Doc always wears a flashy bow tie. Mo likes to guess what color and has bet me a million dollars that it will be green today. I worry that she made a deal with him in advance, but apparently not.
It’s a tasteful pink with a white shirt. I am now rich beyond my wildest dreams, although the wildest dream I can remember recently involves working a news shift before realizing I was supposed to be doing the features section.
I plot how to use the cash to blackmail Mo into staying with me even though she is now married to a 70-year-old geezer. Yes, I am the Bill Belichick of ultrarunning.
But that’s probably burying the lede of the story. Which is this:
I also have a second pair of Nikes that I actually like. But the Chili Peppers bass player had already wrapped my arm up and sent me on my way before I could tell him.
This must be EXACTLY how Lance Armstrong felt when dealing with Dr. Ferrari, his doctor/drug dealer. A couple of bags of iron infusions are in my future. And I get to keep both nuts for now. What more could you ask for?
Maybe a slice of birthday cake and a jaunty hat, quickly appropriated by the Birthday Panda.
“Motivation can’t take you very far if you don’t have the legs,” Armstrong said. He didn’t mention the other stuff. But I know what he means. I start getting the other stuff tomorrow. Maybe the legs will follow.
4 miles on the indoor track after the ordeal today, still at 15:10 pace. It will be interesting to see what the same run feels like tomorrow when I’m wearing my Wile E. Coyote ACME rocket.
And yes, my worst fears about the cat scan results came true.
There was no cat at all.
I think I’ll wear the Nikes on tomorrow’s run out of principle. I hope I can find a pink tie.
As the plane crashed down He thought, “Well, isn’t this nice?”
— Alanis Nadine Morissette
—
The good news: I suppose magnets will not stick to me. Lordy, I hate a sticky magnet.
The bad news: I have no iron. Maybe I just misplaced it.
I tend to look at medical charts as if they were race elevation profiles. This one has quite the screamer of a finish.
On the bright side, this would explain why I’ve been feeling so crappy for the last month or so, and it’s fixable. Horse pill-sized iron supplements that taste like, well, iron supplements. This happened once before and it worked out fine.
But why is this happening? I don’t think we ever found a cause last time. Just slapped some crazy glue on the gaping wound and kept moving. Luckily I turn 70 tomorrow. Maybe we can run the clock out before it becomes serious. Or stock up on duct tape.
Another 4 miles on the indoor track at 15:05, continuing the march to sub-15s. No, I didn’t actually march. It felt OK, but that was when I was blissfully unaware of my anemia. I am now like a Swiss soccer player, writhing relentlessly in the wake of a phantom foul. Or something.
I see the doctor tomorrow. Will he tell me extreme distance running is a bad idea? Will I listen if he does? What’s the point of going on if you can’t go on?
I’m now blissfully to the point that if something bad is going on in my body, I don’t want to know. Just give me some Lorna Doones and leave me alone.
Beats me. Maybe the medical chart really IS an accurate portrayal of my fitness.
Well, I don’t wanna get bitter I don’t wanna turn cruel I don’t wanna get old Before I have to
— jill susan sobule
—
Upside of running at the gym: All the old folks look just like me.
Downside: The membership card isn’t particularly tasty.
Longtime readers will recall my solemn vow to run outside today. But that was before the Lindsey Graham news.
He had just turned 71. I am on the precipice of 70. He had a bad heart. I have a bad heart. He ignored it. I pretend I’m OK. Even though I’m painfully aware I am not.
And so I grudgingly ran my laps today in the cool comfort of the little SCC track, pondering life and death and hate and forgiveness and how could you celebrate someone’s death, and how could you not? Life is complicated, I suppose. Death is pretty simple.
I’m always grappling with just how much I can get away with in pushing the transplanted monkey heart. Should I take the prescribed pills even though they make me into a zombie, and not in the Cranberries sense of the word? Should I run in the heat to get stronger and take a chance on my heart wonking out entirely? Should I give up? Ignore it? What exactly SHOULD I do?
I still have no idea.
Funny how loving someone can change your perspective. I don’t think I would worry about it at this point if it were just me. 70 is a fine quitting point; anything past that is purely a bonus. But I’d like to annoy Mo for a while longer, which requires staying alive. Also we just bought ice cream and I would hate to bow out before it’s gone. But mostly that first point.
I’m not sure where this is leading. They say exercise is good for an ailing heart, but excessive exercise is not. I’m not sure what is considered excessive and I don’t want to find out. So I’m guessing I’ll compromise. Don’t run outside when it’s over 100, drink more water, avoid trips to Ukraine, drink even more water, give serious thought about whether the 12 hour run at the end of August is such a great idea, live my life without selling my soul and kissing up to a wannabe dictator purely for political advantage.
Jill Sobule once wrote about not wanting to get old until she had to. And then she died in a house fire at 66 before she got the chance. I should add avoiding house fires to the list. You never know what the future holds. Ice cream, hopefully.
I’m sure I can abide by at least some of those resolutions, which will be a huge improvement over my new year’s resolutions, which I’ve forgotten entirely.
Four miles on the track today, 15:15 pace, heart still a-fibbing all over the place, thoughts of why the hell am I doing this mostly left behind on the back stretch. I’m sure they’ll know where to find me tomorrow.
This coming week: Another installment of Let’s Find Out If I Have Cancer, Let’s Celebrate Becoming a Septuagenarian (who came up with these names?), and let’s pile up a huge mileage total to pretend last month didn’t happen.
Some of them were dreamers And some of them were fools Who were making plans and thinking of the future
— clyde jackson browne
—
You would think that when I’m running and it’s 105 degrees with a blaring sun (yes, the sun actually blares here), I would welcome getting wet.
You would be wrong.
I am OK with my shirt and shorts being totally soaked from the honest sweat of running in the heat. I love the occasional dousing of a monsoon storm that turns the park into a lake. And nothing beats the warm feeling of accidentally peeing yourself midway through a race.
But I hate hate hate getting nailed by sprinklers.
I run a bunch of loops in a park near home. It’s only four-tenths of a mile, so I can have a heart attack and still make it back to the car to finish off my icy Diet Coke before dying. The course circles two soccer fields with immaculate grass, a feat that in the desert can mean only one thing:
Water. Lots of water.
And so I find myself dodging sprinklers. Sometimes they’re already on when I begin; sometimes they lie in wait and come on only as I pass. They go for maybe a half hour, just long enough to flood the sidewalk and douse me 10 times or so.
We had a breeze today and I was wearing a singlet, so I became my own little air-conditioner, cooling off while I gradually dried out around the loop, only to be doused again. And again.
I loved it. And I hated it. And I loved it. And I hated it.
Why?
Why, when my heart is in overdrive and my cardiologist is sitting in the shade somewhere saying “I told you so,” do I not embrace getting wet to cool off? There’s an icy water fountain on the course. I have a big sponge. Relief is just a douse away.
But I don’t. Maybe it’s because I’ve always lived where it doesn’t rain much. Or maybe I’m a gremlin. I just can’t do it.
I gave up after 2 miles at 16:00 pace, which I considered a moral victory. I’m cracking up on the indoor track, even though nobody has ever squirted me there. I need to figure out how to survive running outside.
The past four weeks have been abysmal. I am running out of excuses for why the mileage hasn’t picked up after Hotfoot. Maybe tomorrow I can get in decent mileage. The Soccer Boys will demonstrate what the world cup would be like if fueled by Modelo and marijuana, so the sprinklers will take the day off. This could be my day. Making plans and thinking of the future. One soggy lap at a time.
On the bright side, today was Mo’s birthday. We had cake. A lot of cake. Way too much cake.
Never give up, never slow down Never grow old, never ever die young
— james vernon taylor
—
One of the questions I am most often asked on street corners and speakeasy establishments is whether I ever regret becoming a journalist when I could have had a lucrative career as a professional cake decorator.
The answer, of course, is an emphatic hell yes. But in my early years, there was still hope that cake decorating could become an Olympic sport, and I didn’t want to lose my eligibility by accepting money. Doesn’t the concept of amateur sports seem like a long, long time ago? Those were the days, my friend. I thought they’d never end.
But, of course, they did. Competitive cake decorating was ahead of its time, and working for newspapers meant free coffee, although a day or two old. And so I set aside my dream.
But I still put on an occasional show. Mo’s 30th birthday is tomorrow, so I decorated her cake for the occasion. OK, the icing and sprinkles were already there. But I added a hyper-realistic drawing of Max the Cat, along with what may be “MO” or possibly “ND,” an homage to Daniel “Rudy” Ruettiger.
Jackson Pollock died in the summer of 1956. I was born around the same time. I suppose we will never know if reincarnation is real, but it’s obvious that the cake mimics Mr. Pollock’s drip style. Which is mostly because I couldn’t figure out how to make the icing squirter squirt. Which is likely how the whole abstract impressionist movement began.
Which of course brings us to today’s run.
Another day on the indoor track, but I think I discovered the key to moving a little faster, which is this: Move a little faster.
Back to almost 15:00 pace for 4 miles, which puts me back where I’m supposed to be, at least in the abstract. Still a lot of a-fib, but I don’t think anybody had to use the paddles on me, so I’m calling it a success.
Never give up, never slow down. Never grow old, never ever die young. Best birthday song ever.
I’m so lucky to have Mo in my life. And she is so lucky to have an in-house cake decorator. Life always seems to work out just fine.
Now I’ve drunk a lot of wine and I’m feeling fine Got to race some cat to bed Oh, is there concrete all around or is it in my head?
— mr. david bowie
—
Theories abound on the secret to training for a multiday race on a loop course. Running a bunch (only as a last resort, of course), sleep deprivation practice, sodium and carb intake, blister preparation, incantations for the inevitable Hello Kitty demon that lurks on the back turn in the wee hours.
Today, I accidentally discovered what may be The Greatest Training Tool in the History of Mankind and Possibly Prehistoric Times If They Had Ultras Back Then And I’m Guessing They Did If They Were Being Chased by T-Rex. Oh, that Marc Bolan. He had a scary stare that turned all the young dudes into juvenile delinquent wrecks. But that’s a different post altogether.
Without further ado, the secret is:
Eating two hot dogs minutes before beginning your run.
I am no stranger to the occasional frankfurter along the course, whether as part of a buffet or a Rocky Horror Picture Show matinee. You’re trudging around the course, the folks at the food table give you the sad eyes that say do you know how hard we worked to make these, and you dutifully accept the little foil-wrapped beast with the same obligatory enthusiasm as Christmas fruitcake. Except for Gumbo’s fruitcake, which I like a lot and was actually a staple of last year’s six-day.
Then, a few laps later, you remember why you never see Walmsley downing them.
They tend to wreak havoc with your digestive tract, a cruel reminder of the “Never Try Anything in The Race That You Didn’t Try in Training” rule.
Which brings us to today. Mo came home from the pottery studio and needed to eat something so she would not get crabby and kill me. Not wanting to die, I joined her. And then we had another hot dog, because the Paula Poundstone Pop-Tart Rule must never be questioned. Yes, running has a lot of rules.
The hot dogs were swell, in a hot dog sort of way. Relishing the moment, I leaned back in my chair for an afternoon siesta, content to rub my belly and watch Reddington kill people for the next few hours, until Mo announced:
“Let’s go run.”
I am scared of Mo and wasn’t at all sure if she was past her Crabby and Kill Me stage, so off we went.
Mo, me and two hot dogs contentedly settling into their gastric airbnb.
I could make up some dramatic tale of how badly things went — stomach churning, tiny-handed dinosaurs and big-headed kitty dolls doing fartleks through my system, elderly walkers on the indoor track doing the Time Warp again.
But in reality, it went just fine. Maybe the movie adaptation will be more exciting.
Four miles at 16-minute pace, fueled entirely by a pre-race delicacy that would make Brent LeRoy proud.
Another hour of air-conditioned contentment on the indoor track as the great outdoors remain hot enough to cook a hot dog on the sidewalk. Another example of specificity in training. Yes, All The Young Dudes is on my 24-hour playlist.
Hey. I might be on to something. Maybe tomorrow will be an outdoor run/cookout.
I wonder if you can toast a Pop-Tart on the sidewalk …
“The best most of us can do is be a poet an hour a day.”
— dr. george sheehan
—
The thought occurred to me today at about the 58-minute mark.
What if an hour is all I have in me these days?
With temps in the upper 200s as the heat takes up its summer residency in the desert, I found myself in the last refuge of the desperate: the SCC indoor track. Eleven laps to a mile, turning the Garmin on and the brain off.
I managed a nudge under 16-minute miles for 4 miles, which is short of the Olympic qualifying standard but good enough for a podium finish at the 10 a.m. Geezer Dash. Although I suppose it doesn’t count as a race if nobody knows we’re racing but me.
The a-fib seems to be settling in for most of my strolls. It leaves me perpetually stuck in second gear, trudging along like a Vespa on an uphill. No, I’ve never ridden a Vespa on an uphill. You gotta work with me here.
Mo runs on a treadmill for an hour at the gym, so I’m pretty much locked in to that duration when we go together. But I’m always secretly relieved when I see her cooling down. Never once do I think, “My, that was easy. Let’s do it again!”
I have all these grand ambitions on the horizon, cruising effortlessly through endless miles, hour after hour after hour.
My imagination says yes. My heart seems to be saying an emphatic no.
It’s not like a stress fracture or an ITB flare-up. I can’t look down the road and say that it’s going to get better at some point. The beloved old Honda ran forever, until it didn’t. I wonder if NPR will tow me away when I eventually break down in the parking lot.
If your world revolves around running and you can’t run, then what? Maybe stop dreaming so big. Accept the limitations of living out the third act in slow motion and get in a few more matinees before the curtain call.
Life is short. Maybe my runs will be as well. And that’s OK.
Celebrate the hour, I suppose. “Every mile I run is my first,” Dr. Sheehan said. “Every hour on the roads a new beginning. Every day I put on my running clothes, I am born again.”
I love that feeling, standing at the starting line with a clean slate, a watch set at zero, a limitless horizon. THIS might be the perfect run.
And if not, there’s tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
“The answer to the big questions in running is the same as the answer to the big questions in life: Do the best with what you’ve got,” Dr. Sheehan said.
If an hour is all my heart has, then an hour is enough. Poetry doesn’t have to be long.
Crank up the ancient Vespa. Uphill battles are the best.
“I’ll say God seems to have a kind of laid-back management style I’m not crazy about. I’m pretty much anti-death. God looks by all accounts to be pro-death. I’m not seeing how we can get together on this issue, he and I…”
— david foster wallace
—
Longtime readers will recall that many years ago I had an annual tradition of trying to kill myself on my birthday. Not so much that I was pro-death; I just desperately needed the noise in my head to turn off. Those were not my favorite years.
Luckily, I wasn’t good at it, because here I am.
So it’s ironic, even in the Marty Cortinas sense of the word, that I’ll find out on my birthday whether I have rejoined the Cancer Club, or will be allowed to sit on the sidelines for a while longer.
I was first diagnosed with lymphoma in 2008. I remember being excited about it because it’s a disease that already has its own running club, Team in Training. I never joined, given that it would require Talking to People, and wasn’t I suffering enough already?
I was lucky enough to find myself under the care of a brilliant oncologist who also was a hardcore bicyclist. We spent countless and very expensive hours talking running and cycling and how exactly glitter can become attached to your private parts at Burning Man and chemo combinations and survival statistics. And then one day, the cancer was gone.
Until it wasn’t.
I have a form of lymphoma that never really goes away. It just agrees to call a truce and lay low for a while.
Until it doesn’t.
And so maybe 10 years later we did the same mambo over again. This time it was a little more ominous, but the chemo was a lot more bad-ass, and so here I am, back in my pseudo remission, still celebrating slow runs and fast picnics.
Next week, I go in for another cat scan, which sadly doesn’t involve an actual feline. It seems like it hasn’t been very long since the last one, which is a bit worrisome. Does the Baby Doc, who took over when my trusty companion hung up his stethoscope and headed for the mountains of France, know something I don’t? He wears a bow tie, so he must be wise. But it’s a zillion degrees outside and the Mayo has air-conditioning and blueberry scones, so it will make for a fine afternoon.
Still, there’s something about that wait for results that is like watching Jaws when the John Williams soundtrack starts to build. Like the scariest cliffhanger of a medical show, but without the commercials. And I will find out on the occasion of Bastille Day, my 70th birthday. Vive le marmot!
“You’re going to die,” the cyclist doctor once assured me. “We’re all going to die. My job is to see that you die from something else.”
I’m hoping that something else is my monkey transplant heart. I would much prefer the sudden Caballo Blanco exit to a protracted, excruciating battle with microsopic rogue terrorists that stage a coup for reasons we still don’t understand.
I’ve already paid the entry fees to a couple of pricey races with no refund possibility, so I would like to live at least through the end of the year. Dying mid-race is a totally different conversation. Must pause Garmin Must pause Garmin. That would make a fine tattoo.
And so I moseyed 4 miles today on the Lasso course in a 110-degree heat that likely gave any cancer lurking inside me second thoughts about planning an extended visit. That’s my strategy for hanging on at this point. If it’s there, make it suffer. I’m pretty much anti-death, unless there’s a race with an unreasonable challenge.
And so the weird guy with the scythe invites himself back to the birthday party, all these years later. I find myself quoting a gifted writer who killed himself in despair, maybe not the best role model for the occasion. Surely he jested.
Mostly I want a birthday scone from the Mayo cafeteria. For the next 10 years. Then Mr. Cuervo and I can blow that candle out.
The dirty little secret they don’t tell you about running in the heat: 110 isn’t all that much worse than 105.
The other dirty little secret they don’t tell you about: 105 isn’t that much fun.
I am retired, knocking on the door of 70 years old and hoping someone answers. I have no particular responsibilities. I can run anytime, from the relative cool of the desert morning to the forgiving shade of sunset.
So, of course, here I am at 2 p.m., waiting for the hallucinations to set in.
Maybe it’s because I’m a creature of habit. As a newspaper copy editor, I always began my work shifts in the early afternoon. There’s just something about waking up late and reading the news while eating my oatmeal, then stalling for all I’m worth until cabin fever sits in and I eventually mosey out. Moseying is something 70-year-olds do, and next week I’ll be one of them.
I’m on the mad dog course, which has been turned into a miniature Autobahn, and not in a good way. I’m guessing my obit someday will mention something about an overzealous early teen on an e-bike. But that’s one of the many advantages of running when it’s unbearably hot: the riff-raff isn’t riff-raffing. I haven’t thought of what the other advantages are yet. Likely something to do with microwaving without needing a microwave.
Still, I love the heat. It’s an honest outing, this stroll that pretends to be a run. I rationalize my pace with the argument that six-day races require patience, not speed. I have patience.
The modified mad dog leads 2 1/2 miles to a blissful water fountain and a return trip. I’m not sure if I’ll eventually jettison the dog park in favor of this, the old sacred course with its ghosts and glory. But for today, we celebrate. Just me and a frisbee golfer and some ducks huddling in the shade while giving me a puzzled look about why I’m out here, and wouldn’t it just be easier to fly.
175 days lie between me and my certain demise. Still, making it to 70 isn’t so bad. When you read an obit and see someone died at 70, you don’t lament that they died before their time. You think “Well, that seems about right.”
I have enough shorts and shoes stockpiled that I’m certain I’ll never need to buy any more. But I’m certain I will. You can’t take it with you. But maybe I’ll take an extra pair of running shoes. Surely they have races in heaven. Or Iowa.
Just left foot, right foot, three breaths, two breaths, that same routine I’ve done for 40 years, give or take a 10k. 720 verses in my head of James Taylor singing about his dad’s walking in silent desperation. How did I listen to that song so many times without realizing?
I love this course, this routine, this life. A hypothetical destination.
