The Great Turn About

Now that my eyes are set to the Atlanta Half Marathon, I think it appropriate to start acting like a runner again. For instance... I went running yesterday. Paul, my college coach for those who don't know, would have averted his eyes to avoid seeing a former collegiate runner of his struggling so. In true recreational jogger fashion, I had my mp3 player strapped to my left arm. It was pretty much the only weapon, I figured, in my personal war of attrition. Within 5 minutes, nay 3 minutes, of bounding off of my front porch, I was already approaching my lactic threshold. Never have I felt like a watermelon with sandpaper-cover soles until that fateful hour. Climbing the hills felt more like pushing against a rusty tractor.

Thinking I would make it easier on myself, I plodded into a graded area where a new subdivision is slated to go in this Fall. As I made my way through the labyrinth of curb-lined dirt roads, I was pretty much drowning in my own perspiration (to put it kindly). Thirty minutes finally came to an end, and I secretly hoped that it would get easier soon, or cooler outside.

Was that enough? No, I then took my brother's pit bull for a walk down to the farm at the end of the road. Walking Muggles was like a new kind of resistance training. He managed to keep my arm in the taut and upright position the whole time. Well, when he wasn't peeing on a mailbox.

As we drew near the turnaround point, the sunset was marinating all things in a rosy glow. And the clouds were like giant, harmless bonfires in the sky. A huge flock of starlings were hosting a convention in a single, lucky pine tree. They gabbed like a bunch of church ladies at a prayer meeting while Muggs panted and I stood in wonder. Then they took to the air, and it was the sound of a thousand books being blown open by the wind. They were the scales of a giant flying fish. And got to see it. But then what is seeing it alone? It is almost like it never happened.

Then on our trek home, I saw three geldings grazing on Bennett Kimbral Road. I signalled to them, but they were lazy in their coming. In fact, only one of them approached the wire. It was a thick bay. His neck crested like a stallion; his hindquarters looked good enough to make steaks out of. Not that I eat horses, but I do like mine with muscular booty. Those are the kind of horses that make for a smooth ride. Call them the Cadillacs of the equine persuasion.

When we finally made it home, Muggs had no urine left for marking territory. And so it was time to head to my fire ring. After getting a fire started, I set up for the night and tried to sleep through the distant sounds of semi-trucks on I-75. Man, it must have taken me ages to crash.