Jim Casy Can Talk Shit, Can Not Hang

I make no secrets about my recent foray into the running world.  I’ve always been a somewhat devoted gym-type person, so exertion is really not that big a deal.  Running, however, is one of those hobbies that, much like representative democracy, has nebulous benefits that are not immediately perceivable and a jealous nature.  But I have been trying.  I have forsaken all others, save the random mountain biking excursion, for this one semi-love.

I’m able to run ten miles, now.  I used to run out of anger, or out of some existential angst, but now I just run because I run.  There’s no great trauma I’m sweating out and no self-flagellation, just me and my shoes.

I decided the other afternoon to run up to a friend’s house. The conditions were perfect for it, so I tacked on a few miles.  It was a beautiful day.  I ran places I have never seen before, and they’re barely a quarter mile off my beaten paths in a town I have lived in for 14 years.  Eventually, I found myself down by the river.  There’s a trail that follows, roughly, the five year inundation contour of the river channel.  I ran along it, headphones in but no music playing.  Ahead, there were the typical homeless.  Three men standing around with trashbags and backpacks.  One of them was a lanky older man with a white beard.

As I approached, I gave a wave and nod.  Then I heard footsteps.  I didn’t want to look paranoid, so I pretended to wipe away sweat and saw that, right behind me, was the old guy.  I noticed he was in decent shape.

It went through my head that it was very unlikely he meant me harm.  But it seemed just as unlikely he wanted to race.  So I stretched out my stride, but he matched it easily and gained a little more ground.

I thought about breaking out into a full sprint, but,  honestly, my sprints are about as spectacular as watching a cement mixer at the drag strip.  Besides, I had forgot to slather Thor McPython and the Thunder Twins in their protective slick of petroleum jelly anti-chafe, so any prolonged sprint would be felt for days.

So, I did  what thousands of years of crazy Celt genetics and disposition told me to do.  I went straight up a steep cutbank.  It was maybe a seventy foot climb, but I knew I had it and the other guy didn’t.

It didn’t even occur to me that any of this was out of the ordinary until today.