Ticka Ticka Ticka Good Timin'
Written 3/04/06
I hope my timing luck didn’t run out on me today. Out riding my bike on a leisurely 10-mile jaunt out to the end of the BART path, and noting that many runners were taking advantage of the dry interval to get in their miles. My plan is to go tomorrow morning, but the forecast gives a 50 percent chance of rain at 6 a.m. I just didn’t have it in me to go today, however. Z and I went to the gym last night and I whined and groused my way through about 25 minutes of lifting some sissy weights before I cried uncle.
The bike ride today was a pleasure. It was the first time I’d been to the end of the path in a couple of months, and I was thrilled to find the Baxter Creek restoration area is open. By the time the path gets out three or four miles north of Berkeley it has made its way into a pretty hard-scrabble neighborhood in Richmond, so what a treat it was today to see a smooth ribbon of new macadam winding its way along next to the recently uncovered and restored creek. I saw plantings that by midsummer should be hardy and colorful.
After turning around at the end of the trail I rode back into El Cerrito, where I stopped off at Trader Joe’s. It was packed, as usual, and I found myself in a long, slow checkout line waiting to take full possession of my goodies (fresh spinach, mini-pizzas, frozen salmon, blueberry bran muffins—yum). I saw, and shared, the frustration of everyone around me. As I stood there, though, the bounty offered by the place, the smells, the sights, the colors—the sheer sensory richness of being there—gave me pause. I stopped being quite so impatient and thought instead what it will be like to be dead. To no longer be able to stand impatiently in line at Trader Joe’s, no longer a healthy and well-fed human, the coddled denizen of a warm marketplace crowded with others of my ilk, all of us alive and well and unconscious of the miracle of it all. I went back in my mind to the conversation I had this morning with my friend J, whose 59-year-old boyfriend died yesterday from the brain tumor he was diagnosed with only two weeks ago. I also am 59. I am not going to live forever, just as he didn’t. (Neither are you, by the way—so don’t feel too sorry for me.)
All this does relate to running in a way, at least it does in my mind. I have but one life; I was issued but one body. As goes the health of this body, so go I. I will get out there tomorrow morning, barring a hurricane. Today I made sure to send in the money for Z and me to run the half marathon at Avenue of the Giants May 7. I won’t do the 26-miler that day, but will shoot for the full marathon in SF on July 30. Last I heard, there were no marathons or even half marathons after death, so I think I’ll run mine while I’m still on this side of the great by-and-by. Cheers. As my son the television production ace might say, breathe long and prosper.
I hope my timing luck didn’t run out on me today. Out riding my bike on a leisurely 10-mile jaunt out to the end of the BART path, and noting that many runners were taking advantage of the dry interval to get in their miles. My plan is to go tomorrow morning, but the forecast gives a 50 percent chance of rain at 6 a.m. I just didn’t have it in me to go today, however. Z and I went to the gym last night and I whined and groused my way through about 25 minutes of lifting some sissy weights before I cried uncle.
The bike ride today was a pleasure. It was the first time I’d been to the end of the path in a couple of months, and I was thrilled to find the Baxter Creek restoration area is open. By the time the path gets out three or four miles north of Berkeley it has made its way into a pretty hard-scrabble neighborhood in Richmond, so what a treat it was today to see a smooth ribbon of new macadam winding its way along next to the recently uncovered and restored creek. I saw plantings that by midsummer should be hardy and colorful.
After turning around at the end of the trail I rode back into El Cerrito, where I stopped off at Trader Joe’s. It was packed, as usual, and I found myself in a long, slow checkout line waiting to take full possession of my goodies (fresh spinach, mini-pizzas, frozen salmon, blueberry bran muffins—yum). I saw, and shared, the frustration of everyone around me. As I stood there, though, the bounty offered by the place, the smells, the sights, the colors—the sheer sensory richness of being there—gave me pause. I stopped being quite so impatient and thought instead what it will be like to be dead. To no longer be able to stand impatiently in line at Trader Joe’s, no longer a healthy and well-fed human, the coddled denizen of a warm marketplace crowded with others of my ilk, all of us alive and well and unconscious of the miracle of it all. I went back in my mind to the conversation I had this morning with my friend J, whose 59-year-old boyfriend died yesterday from the brain tumor he was diagnosed with only two weeks ago. I also am 59. I am not going to live forever, just as he didn’t. (Neither are you, by the way—so don’t feel too sorry for me.)
All this does relate to running in a way, at least it does in my mind. I have but one life; I was issued but one body. As goes the health of this body, so go I. I will get out there tomorrow morning, barring a hurricane. Today I made sure to send in the money for Z and me to run the half marathon at Avenue of the Giants May 7. I won’t do the 26-miler that day, but will shoot for the full marathon in SF on July 30. Last I heard, there were no marathons or even half marathons after death, so I think I’ll run mine while I’m still on this side of the great by-and-by. Cheers. As my son the television production ace might say, breathe long and prosper.
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