These days, all of that stuff falls under the heading of mileage, at least it does for me. It’s easier that way. And more useful as shorthand, hence Tarmac Meditations.
But “hope is a thing with feathers” as the poet said (although I am sure she was not referring to the new duster I bought the other day and placed prominently on a corner of my desk); I am closing in on the work that needs doing. Trust me.
The city never seemed to sleep; there was always some place open, some last-chance hole in the wall, some “been here since the first war” kind of joint that would serve you beer and a shot and leave you alone.
Not inexplicably, I felt great in that moment, for the first time in a long while – and I still do.
I heard the singer asking that he might stand tall once more and do what needed doing. For a drifting moment in the darkened house, my home for many years, the singer’s voice felt like my own.
The Waldo 100k shoot at Willamette Pass in Oregon emptied my tank, but the day was beautiful, the runners inspirational as they embraced their personal pursuit of their hard earned dreams.
Bruce turned to me and said as we drove off, “Young man, 68 is young, believe you me. It just keeps on getting better and better from here on out.”
Yeah, I m glad it’s not me this year. I wish them the best of everything on this day: let them run long all the way to the end, run easy and, for goodness sake, let them get home safe.
Went for a longish Sunday walk/run and remembered some other walks/runs in the forest; one of them looked like this creek; another was quiet like a branch on Sunday morning.
Yesterday, I didn’t know which way was up. This morning, someone bought an image from my website!