Running Journal 22

Home from work earlier than usual on a Friday to forget, I contemplated running but fell asleep in the wicker chair and took a 20-minute nap. When I got up, I changed into shorts and got out the door at 6:18, right on time.

The pace found its own rhythm going out the alley to Park Street and out the three-quarters of a mile to the pond in Boyer nature preserve. With minimal effort and minimal walking, I circled the pond counting laps on my fingers and strides with my breathing - two steps inhale, four steps exhale - six times around. All the way back on Park Street was relatively pain-free (1/3 x 6) + (3/4 x 2) = 3.5 miles at 12-minute pace.

The pool was winding down and only a few family groups, including my friend Jeff doing his usual 30 laps and his two sons and their seven friends, were there by the time I arrived on my bike for eight laps and call it a day.

Off to a rough start on Saturday, Gven and I eventually settled  on a plan to go to Comfest around seven, in time for a drum circle scheduled for 8:30, but of course it rained on and off all day, so it was hard to tell if Goodale Park would be a massive mud-hole or not. So I hedged my bets and went for a bike ride (40 minutes) and a swim (20 minutes) and ate a piece of quiche. The rain persisted, so we went to a movie instead, and "The Grand Budapest Hotel" was funny and entertaining and full of surprises.

Having slept well, I got up Sunday morning in time to start a batch of bread and work out briefly before going to church and Java Central, where St. Teresa took the trouble to turn the table where I always sit  to the angle I like, and when I pronounced my approval we all got a good laugh. So the feng shui was just right, and Mike joined me  at "my" table bearing David Halberstam's high-brow book about baseball, which launched us into an extended discussion of the readability of authors from Dostoyevsky to Joyce to Faulker to Salmon Rushdie. Quoting Hawthorne, I maintain that part of the writer's job is to do the hard work of making it easier for the reader to get inside the narrative.

I had just enough energy to sit outside and read the New York Times and eat lunch, but not enough to weed the garden, which has come to resemble a rainforest. So I could only stake up the tomato plants and weed a small portion of the front bed by the street, which is perpetually out of control. It is sad to see things get so chaotic, but as time ticked away, I chose to let it go and opted for a short bike ride (30 minutes) and swim (20 minutes) before heading home. The gin and tonic, baked salmon and potatoes, and salad with avocado were well worth it. The birds sang lustily in the pine tree, the fireflies hovered over the groundcover. Life is short.