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 …