Who Let the Dogs Out?
That was the question posed my first run in Phoenix, on March 24. It was already warm at 6:40 a.m. when I headed out from the Super 8 Motel on East Van Buren Street in the direction of the canal and its long, sandy path. But it was a weekday, and traffic was fierce, so I decided to cut north on 37th street to the canal. By about the second block into the shortcut I started hearing barking. I realized the street was lined on both sides with fenced-in, snarling dogs, all of whom seemed to think I looked a lot like breakfast. These weren’t your family puppy dogs -- these were guard dogs, long of fang and glittery of eye.
I averted my face as much as I could (aren’t you supposed to do that?) and jogged on, confident that I’d be at my destination soon. As I approached the end of the street, first I saw a dog that was unfenced and off-leash, and then I saw a high, chain-link fence with a padlocked gate in it that was the only possible exit from the street onto the canal path. I contemplated scaling the fence, as I would have done without hesitation even three or four years ago, but then I contemplated how the off-leash dog might REALLY see me as breakfast were I to fall and scrape myself and suddenly smell of yummy blood.
I did a U-turn and jogged slowly, retracing my steps until I was back on East Van Buren. Don’t know why I’m such a sissy about bad dogs, but I am, and my heart was pumping the adrenalin like I was fleeing a saber-toothed tiger.
Luckily, in running, adrenalin is your friend. I got in a lively five-miler. Along the way I passed a lot of school children walking along the canal and saw several GOOD dogs. Not to mention cars, ducks, a couple of other runners. By the time I got back to the Super 8, the day felt under way.
On March 25 I was up and out again, this time at 6:30. East Van Buren was somewhat quieter since it was Saturday. This time I headed south-southeast, which made for a very different run. The canal path this direction hits the edge of town right after you pass some junkyards, and soon you’re running with desert to your right and a few dilapidated old buildings on your left. Once you cross the tracks and duck under the freeway, there’s a farm supply yard with combines looking like metal dinosaurs who are resting in the sun. There’s a small, fragrant orange grove, and beyond that a well-kept adobe farm house.
I did a five-miler that day too, a run highlighted by two jack-rabbit sightings and a serenade by mud-daubers from their little round nests tucked under the freeway. I’m trying to ramp up my training a bit, and succeeding to some degree. We got back from Phoenix Saturday night. I had taken today, Monday, off from work, and so took the opportunity to head out the BART path for an 11-miler. It wasn’t the best run I’ve ever had, but wasn’t bad, either. My feet seemed to want to take turns hurting—eventually they subsided a bit. The cherry blossoms were to die for. Every year I wait for them to bloom, and finally the time always comes. It’s disappointing that the weather continues cold and rainy, but, happily, the blossoms don’t seem to mind. At the turnaround at the end of the path, the wildflower garden is also looking lovely.
So. I’ve done 11, and should be set to do 13.1 by May 7. The training regimen Z is following also seems to be successful, so we should be a couple of smokin’ codgers by the time race day rolls around.
I averted my face as much as I could (aren’t you supposed to do that?) and jogged on, confident that I’d be at my destination soon. As I approached the end of the street, first I saw a dog that was unfenced and off-leash, and then I saw a high, chain-link fence with a padlocked gate in it that was the only possible exit from the street onto the canal path. I contemplated scaling the fence, as I would have done without hesitation even three or four years ago, but then I contemplated how the off-leash dog might REALLY see me as breakfast were I to fall and scrape myself and suddenly smell of yummy blood.
I did a U-turn and jogged slowly, retracing my steps until I was back on East Van Buren. Don’t know why I’m such a sissy about bad dogs, but I am, and my heart was pumping the adrenalin like I was fleeing a saber-toothed tiger.
Luckily, in running, adrenalin is your friend. I got in a lively five-miler. Along the way I passed a lot of school children walking along the canal and saw several GOOD dogs. Not to mention cars, ducks, a couple of other runners. By the time I got back to the Super 8, the day felt under way.
On March 25 I was up and out again, this time at 6:30. East Van Buren was somewhat quieter since it was Saturday. This time I headed south-southeast, which made for a very different run. The canal path this direction hits the edge of town right after you pass some junkyards, and soon you’re running with desert to your right and a few dilapidated old buildings on your left. Once you cross the tracks and duck under the freeway, there’s a farm supply yard with combines looking like metal dinosaurs who are resting in the sun. There’s a small, fragrant orange grove, and beyond that a well-kept adobe farm house.
I did a five-miler that day too, a run highlighted by two jack-rabbit sightings and a serenade by mud-daubers from their little round nests tucked under the freeway. I’m trying to ramp up my training a bit, and succeeding to some degree. We got back from Phoenix Saturday night. I had taken today, Monday, off from work, and so took the opportunity to head out the BART path for an 11-miler. It wasn’t the best run I’ve ever had, but wasn’t bad, either. My feet seemed to want to take turns hurting—eventually they subsided a bit. The cherry blossoms were to die for. Every year I wait for them to bloom, and finally the time always comes. It’s disappointing that the weather continues cold and rainy, but, happily, the blossoms don’t seem to mind. At the turnaround at the end of the path, the wildflower garden is also looking lovely.
So. I’ve done 11, and should be set to do 13.1 by May 7. The training regimen Z is following also seems to be successful, so we should be a couple of smokin’ codgers by the time race day rolls around.
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