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.

Back to the Caveman Way

About a week ago, we finally got rain down here in the Southeast. A blessed curse, if you ask me. It was a relatively cool afternoon, but that short-lived sweetness gave way to ravenous winds. The sky turned several shades darker signalling the arrival of the first real storm of the entire flippin' summer. Huge globules of rain commenced to tenderizing everything not protected by shingles. Our animals (minus the cat) were all safe inside the house. Smash, the cat, needs no one. And it came to no surprise that she never came onto the porch to get out of the storm. The dogs (Bean and Muggs), are another story. They were bounding around, acting like squirrels on cocaine.

Then the sky became surreal in its light hue. It was if the atomic bomb had just mushroomed out to produce enough light to last the next 10 million years. I peered through the window, transfixed by the pale, if not violent, quality of the world outside the living room window. Suddenly it occurred to me that a tornado could be in the works. But before I could move away from the window, not ten feet from the porch, a bolt of lightning licked the earth with a merciless crash. Blinded, I staggered backwards and trampled Bean underfoot. He let out a defensive squeak of a yelp. We must have looked like clowns.

Mom told Hunter to shut down the computer. Meanwhile, we turned various appliances off and headed for the basement. Before we reached the basement, and Hunter on the computer, the unthinkable happened. Hunter had been in the process of shutting the computer off, when lightning travelled through the wires and shocked him senseless. According to his narration, and I don't doubt his story, all the volts passing through his body made him temporarily blind. Even after Hunter was upstairs and walking around, he complained that the left side of his body was in extreme pain. And to boot, all his music that he'd been producing (for years, nonetheless) had been lost forever. The computer was dually fried.

And two of our three televisions were put out of this world. Finally the storm continued on its war path as evidenced by the boomings in the distance. As the evening drew on, I could not help but think we had been divinely educated. The object I had spent most of my time fawning over was now deceased: the computer. Also, two-thirds of our televisions (which transmitted not only a waste of time, but "filth") were caput.

So here I find myself, in the newly renovated Cartersville library with seven minutes before my time on this computer is up. One hour a day on the internet is much better. Painful, but better. Martin Radigan, I hope you can sleep tonight, knowing that I used the majority of this hour to compose a piece only you will ever read.