June 9, 2010
Did not want to get out of bed this morning. Did not run yesterday and felt guilty and old and slow and…like usual. Got out of bed at 3:30 (don’t ask) and then went back to bed. Heard a woodpecker down the way, thought about that for a while, decided he had as much right as I did to stay where he was, doing what he was doing. Thought about that some more, got out of bed, grabbed my camera and the long lens and thought to record the moment. No sign of the noisy f—-r. Now what? Oh right, running. (Aggravation is good for the metabolism right along with coffee and pushups, though not all at the same time.) Asics Speedstars for the long runs on account of they are lighter, less structured but steady. And Bob Coll says that Bill Rodgers wears them.
Out the door, down the road, 45 minutes out, Spoonful, Roots, Van, Marvin, Kenny Chesney. All steady state and all. Turned, heading back, aiming for 90 minutes. (A 10% increase over last week’s long one). Back to Jefferson, headed up the hill, bought a wooden stool at a garage sale (they are moving to Corvallis so she can get her PhD in Human Development), and kept going. Feeling the hill. Crossed 18th and went to run a minute walk a minute on the hill.
A friend showed up on her bike. She was on her way to school but thought to inspire me up the hill. Sweet. On, off, 90 minutes comes. And goes. “Can I bag this now?” I say out loud, thinking that it was in the bag. “No. Finish it.” This with a lovely smile. I hate it when your friends are runners and they won’t let you wimp out.
Finished up strong, told her I would blame her for all the stiff muscles and other exercise-induced whining I could conjure up. I took a little verbal abuse coming from behind her semi-angelic smile and went in to get my keys to go back for my purchase. When I came out she had disappeared down the hill, on her to academic madness and the rest of her day.
A half bagel on my return, Coltrane and Monk on the box, some writing, a nap in the offing. Sunday morning, the world is a cathedral of my own choosing, quiet, musical, magical.
Ain’t it grand?
Sunday mornings can be what you make of them, I guess. This sounds like a good one.
I kind of love it when friends won’t let you wimp out–in running or in life. “Suit up; show up.” A good friend of mine said that.
Knows where of he speaks that friend…