At Lambeau Field

{Inspired by the Green Bay volunteers, this is for all race volunteers everywhere: Thank You!}Green Bay outside lambeau

The volunteers are already at work,

saluting each other as they report for duty.

Their brightly hued race shirts band them,

a peaceful army filling cups

in the long shadows of a spring dawn.

Green Bay

When I enlisted in the running corps

I timed my race arrivals as close to the start as possible.

Curled like a cat, Green catI slept clinging to my pillows,

ignoring the reveille bugling emails and commands

of the beleaguered Race Director.


Having weathered a few marathon skirmishes,

now I’m up before the alarm. I punch the coffee awake

and down some breakfast while dressing.

Like the Border Collie straining to get to pastures,

I’m anxious to head out into Race Day.


Trotting down the street, I wave at the yawning cop in his cruiser.

He grins back, giving me a thumbs up. Soon I am in a platoon

of bibbed runners, marching along with supporters, dogs and kids in strollers.Green Bay pre race

We fall into a loose formation as we converge in flanking maneuvers,

swarming the lines of volunteers with our needs and nerves.


We are no match for them. Smoothly they encircle us with their cheer

and preparedness.   In response to our thanks, they exhort us to

“Have a Great Race!”  In striving for glory, we rely on these troops.

Unsung, unpaid, unheralded, they make our weekend warrior dreams

possible.   Now, we hail this special squad, who give so we may run.


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Run Faster. Run for Your Rights. Run.

Ronny tenses his right leg, then starts a controlled, rhythmic jiggle. He’s trying not to distract his three partners at the table.The kid should be turning down Hogan Street toward Hemming Plaza in a few minutes.  Ronny sent her out on a ten miler just before he met up with the guys.

Chillin photo by k. E. Garland.png

Chillin, by K.E. Garland, photographer,

They’re used to him and his ways after so many years. His groan-worthy puns.  His not eating meat, even though he was the Cutter in one of Jax’s oldest and best rib joints for years. Today, no one even bothered to comment on his brightly hued blue and orange Gator shirt. After all, it’s what you’d expect of a contrarian who scouts for the U of North Florida Ospreys track and cross-country teams. Track UNF

There’s something about this kid that has gotten to Ronny.  She’s old fashioned.  O sure, she fits in with her crowd, saw Lemonade three times the first week it dropped and is out there now running with her phone firmly fastened to her arm.   But if he had to describe her, he’d use the word ‘plucky.’

She’s working at a coffee shop when she’s not at school or track practices; always willing to grab an extra shift.  Not the most natural runner, she charts her workouts and follows the schedule he drafted for her.  Runs all the drills.  Her questions are smart, to the point.  Not shy, but she doesn’t run her mouth just to hear herself.  Calls him “sir.”

And he’s seen her out running.  He goes out every morning, pre-dawn, for his own solitary miles.  Most times over the past year, he’s seen her out there too.  That’s how he found her.  Admired the gumption he saw in her.  Figuring she might run for one of the high school teams, he dropped by one of the fall regional cross country meets.  Spotted her right off; runners all have styles and she has a determined, head up, efficient gait.

And damn if that isn’t her now, churning up the road, smiling and waving at him.  He told her to take it easy, he just wanted to get a sense of her endurance.  Looking back at his timer, he sees she’s coming in way under 1:20, considerably less than 8 minute miles.

“Hiya Mr. Ronnie!”  She isn’t even breathing hard.

“Well Ms. Speedster, not bad.  I bet myself you wouldn’t do so well.  Guess I best pay up by treating you to lunch.  Desert Rider Sandwich Shop ok with you?”

“Yes sir, that’s fine, but how about I treat you and you can tell me about Ax Handle Saturday?”

“Ex-excuse me?” Ronny stares at her and the fellows swivel their eyes at the pair.

“You were neighbors with Rodney L. Hurst back in 1960, weren’t you?”

“That I was,” Ronny nods.  “I was 10 years old and he was about 15.  Thought he hung the moon.  Used to follow him all over town.”

“I just finished his book, It was Never about a Hot Dog and a Coke.   That plaque behind you tells a little of the story, of how Mr. Hurst and some young people organized a peaceful lunch counter demonstration  at a ‘whites only’ lunch counter in Woolworth’s  to protest racial segregation on August 27, 1960.”Ax handle

“I’m aware.”  Ronny waited for her to continue.

“And then, white people started spitting on the protestors and yelling racial slurs at them. When the young people stayed, they were beaten with wooden ax handles. It ended up with over a hundred white people with baseball bats and ax handles chasing African Americans through Jacksonville.”

She took a breath.

“Sir, I heard that you were there and ran with Mr. Rodney.  I’d like to know your story.”

“Well.”  Ronny paused, thinking.  “It’s not the kind of running I’d planned on discussing with you.  I don’t talk much about that day.”

She kept her silence, just meeting his gaze.

Finally, he responded: “I guess you earned the right, though.  Hungry?”

“That I am, Mr. Ronny.  In more ways than one.  Shall we, sir?”

He tipped his cap, and the pair sauntered across the dogg

[Note: Mr. Rodney L Hurst, Sr. wrote the book mentioned about Ax Handle Saturday and the civil rights movement.  Ronny and the runner are completely fictional, inspired by the work of Ms. K.E. Garland, featured above.]



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Time Runner

“Chris, come set the table. Are you up there?  Chris!”

“On my way, mum,” he responded, vaulting over the bannister to skip the last three steps and slide into the dining room.

Pshew, that was close, he acknowledged to himself, laying out the plates and cutlery.

Reaching into the cupboard to get the glasses, he saw that he was still wearing the Oxford singlet under his hastily donned shirt.history

“How was practice?” His mother came around the corner.  “Goodness, did you forget to shower?”

He grimaced. “We had to run some extra intervals.  I’ll clean up right after supper, promise.”

“And you’re sure all this running isn’t taking away from your school work?”

“Got it covered. Besides, it’s in my genes.”  He tipped his head toward the framed photo of three young men in track gear hung in a prominent place on the far wall.



Brasher, Bannister, Chataway


She smiled and tousled his hair. “You could be twins with your grandfather, that’s a fact.   You were his favorite; he just couldn’t hide it no matter how much he tried.”

Chris was named after his grandfather, Chris Chataway, an English politician and sportsman who had represented England at the Olympics in 1952 and 1956.   He was also one of the two pacers who helped Roger Bannister break the four- minute mile May 6, 1954.

And, even though he died in 2014, he was giving Chris one hell a of dilemma right now.

Tucked away in a trunk full of his sports belongings was an old pair of track shoes. Specifically left to Chris by his grandfather via instructions in his will, they’d been wrapped and sealed very carefully.  They were vintage shoes from the era, broken in, but just enough. Still a lot of wear left in them, and in really remarkable shape.

Chris thought he was meant to find the proper museum-type spot for them. Until he found the note.

“Dear Chris,

You’ve grown into a loving and charming young man. Life has been very good to me, but I deeply regret not being able to share our mutual love of running as it should be experienced; out on a grand spring day, keeping pace with each other. I’m going to give you some simple directions and trust that you will continue to humor me as you always have.  When you turn 17, open the shoes and go for a run in them. Just two conditions: tell no one what you are doing, and make certain you are absolutely alone.   Please do this for me.   Lovingly, GF.”    

Never had following directions been so life-changing.

Once he was running in the shoes, alone, he found he was running in London. In the spring.  In 1954. Only he was no longer alone.  His running partner was a 23 year old Chris Chataway; his grandfather.   Or, his grandfather-to-be.  Confusing, or it was at first.  “Time-travel,” his grandfather whispered as they hit the track, then took off at a brilliant pace.TT

Since then, they’d “met” for several running dates.    Negotiating the portals was slightly tricky, but doable.  Well, it’s been working so far.  They don’t always get the timing exactly right, like today.  But now, Grandfather has another request. He’s calibrated the times and has figured out what Chris needs to do to be in Oxford on May 6th.   In 1954.   Or, rather, what he thinks will work.   Chris has two weeks to decide.time travel

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The Fellowship of the Traveling Runner


The other day I was chatting with another runner just before heading out to cover some miles. We were exchanging details of our next marathons: which states, dates, other runners we’re meeting there, any time goals–the usual highlights.    For some reason, we both started chuckling at ourselves and the conversation.  travel run 2We acknowledged to each other how crazy our pursuit of our sport probably seems to most of the rest of the (non-distance running) world.
We don’t plan one or two week vacations after consulting travel websites and perusing glossy brochures.  We go on race weekends.  Unless it’s a big “destination race,” e.g., Hawaii, we look for a cheap flight and even cheaper motels.  The idea is to get to as many races you can afford and physically complete.  Since marathons in Florida pretty much dry up from April through September, I look north for summer races.

In a few weeks, I’ll be heading northwest to visit a place that has been on my radar screen for decades.  Growing up in Detroit, I associate Thanksgiving with the Lions-Packers game.  They played for 13 straight years; I was 9 at their final turkey day meet-up.   After one year when the Lions handed the Packers their only loss of the season, Vince Lombardi pressed to change the schedule.  He finally prevailed.  Green Bay didn’t play Detroit on Thanksgiving again until the mid ’80s.
Packer fans are unique.  They are crazy cheeseheads (they embrace the name) who love their team beyond the beyond.

They show up after snowstorms to shovel out Lambeau Field for the team, which is the only non-profit, community owned major league pro sports team in the U.S.  As a decades long member of Red Sox Nation, I am intrigued.  And the Green Bay marathon starts and finishes at Lambeau Field, with a tailgate-themed party at the end.

I am also really looking forward to connecting with running friends from across the country.  We stay in touch via the Internet and plan regular meet-ups.  Last year, we congregated in Charlevoix, Michigan.  This year, it’s Green Bay.  We’ve rented a half of a duplex, so we’ll be able to hang out, cook our own meals, enjoy a backyard with a fire pit, and at a substantial savings over motels.


We’ve been doing this for a long time.  I remember getting together in 2005 in Omaha.  One couple in our group brought their young son, who played the piano for us in the hotel lobby.    Today he’s in college, turning twenty years old.  And we’re still running.

That Omaha marathon was my 22nd.  Green Bay, if I finish, will be 165.  In my defense, I point you to the Marathon Maniacs, a group of over 12,000 runners (I’m #130) who run multiple marathons every year.

We all plan our vacation days around marathons.   And then there’s the sister group, Half-Fanatics.  A little more measured, they run half marathons.  Lots of them.  There are over 14,000 of those folks (of course, some of us are repeat offenders and belong to both).

Looking forward to reporting back on how the Green Bay marathon reunion unfolds.  For now, gotta run; need to finish up plans for the August trip!
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Am I blue?

That feeling you get when you say good-bye to friends or family.  It’s as if you swallowed a cantaloupe whole.  That sense of being just a step behind the rest of the world.  You just can’t feel the beat.  That smile on your face.  Anyone who knows you can see it’s mostly for show.


The 120th Boston Marathon is now officially in the books.  Run and done.  Thousands of stories, images, medals and crumpled paper cups.  It’s the cups that have my attention at the moment.  The detritus of the party that is now over for another year.

party's over 3


Yesterday, before I left for the airport, I saw a news story recapping the marathon.  The film included a shot of workers pulling up the tape from Boylston Street: the blue and yellow tape marking the finish line.   We posed by it all weekend.  On Monday, we strained for it, cresting Heartbreak, grimacing, taking the last overpass at mile 25, only to head down the underpass to make our way to the right turn on Hereford, and then that glorious left on Boylston.  And then to the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  Now it’s essentially erased.

On the T later that day, headed to Logan, the atmosphere was markedly subdued.  The buzz and energy of the cars filled with edgy, happy (and nervous) runners were gone.  While teal jackets were sprinkled lightly among the riders, most folks were somberly studying their phones or tablets in their last remaining moments before the start of the work or school week.   We runners were yesterday’s news.

Oh I know, we need to get over ourselves.  Plan the next race and move on.  Boston is not a defining moment for most runners.  I know several who dislike the hype.  Not everyone who qualifies signs up to run it.   The course is quirky, and in some ways, so is Boston.  You really don’t want to drive in the city, for instance.  The weather in April is always……well, it’s interesting, and gives those who are running the race something to expend energy on during the long days of tapering.

For those of us who love Boston, however, saying good-bye is tinged with melancholy.    As David Ortiz explained in the days after the 2013 race: “it’s our f*#&-ing city.”  Sure, Boston may lack a lot of things that NYC brags about, it’s grittier than San Francisco and more parochial than LA.  But Boston wears its heart on its sleeve.   And Boston took the horror of 2013 and came back to show the world what people can do to rise up out of tragedy.

party's over 10

Two of the thousands of finishers Monday went across that finish line on prosthetic limbs, having lost theirs in the 2013 bombing.  I can’t call them victims, because clearly, they are so NOT that.  Another rolled across in a hand cycle.  In all,over 30 survivors ran Monday.  Martin Richards, the 8 year old boy killed three years ago, inspired a organization created by his family.  Formally called the Martin Richard Foundation, it honors Martin’s message of “No more hurting people. Peace” by investing in education, athletics and community.    MR8 jerseys were sported by many runners Monday, each one raising money for good works.

Boston Police Officer Lauren Woods was working in the area of the finish line in 2013.  In the moments after the attack, Lauren rushed to the aid of Lingzi Lu, a young Chinese woman.  Lauren was by Lingzi’s side when she died. Although ordered to leave Lingzi Lu’s side (given concerns about the potential threat of other bombs nearby), Lauren refused. Said Lauren: “it was important for me to stay with her.” When Lingzi’s parents arrived from China for their daughter’s memorial service, Officer Lauren Woods met them, embraced them and told them: “she wasn’t alone when she died.”

It doesn’t end there.  Woods ran the marathon Monday, too.  Interviewed by Boston Globe columnist Kevin Cullen, she told him: “When I was running down Boylston, I hit everybody’s hands where Lingzi was.  I hit the mailbox, hit the tree.”  Cullen goes on to describe her at the finish: “she was standing there, Lauren Woods was, touching the L necklace that Lingzi’s parents had given her.  ‘And when I finished the race,’ Lauren Woods said,  ‘I felt like I had finished a day that she didn’t get to finish.'”

The day is finished, and for us all.  We who shared the camaraderie, joy and trials of Boston this year are moving on, of course we are.  We did it last year and with luck, will repeat it all again in 2017.  But for a few more days, allow us to linger a bit in the past, to play the blues ever so softly, and to perhaps tell you just one more story about the spirit of the marathon as we found it in Boston this year.blues 4



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A reason for the run, and the luck of it.

How-to-Pick-Up-a-Good-Pair-of-Suitable-Running-Shoes-3By now, I’ve read countless articles that advise me every run should have a reason.   While I do indeed have a purpose for my runs, I don’t think my sense of purpose is what is meant by the running experts writing those advisory articles.  I might go out one day to see the sunrise, and another evening to loosen up after work and think things through.

One of my favorite runs is the day or two after a marathon. I’m one of those runners who believes that an easy run helps speed recovery by getting the blood flowing.    The run a day or two after allows for reflection of what was learned, as well as the highlights of the race. Marathon Quote I can’t remember what was going on mile by mile, but I usually have a general impressionistic sense of how my race progressed.

Each marathon is unique.  Even those I’ve run several times are never the same, as my conditioning, the weather, and other intangibles all factor into the equation resulting in my finishing time.    Spending a little time while running and thinking about running makes perfect sense to me.

If I ran well, I might be inclined to figure that my next marathon goal should be a bit swifter than the one just run.   Sitting and looking at running articles and pace charts might tend to encourage that sort of thinking.  Running, I am reminded of the effort it takes to complete a marathon and so am much more judicious in looking ahead to the next race.  I’m more interested in running another marathon as soon as I can, so I’ll forgo some speed for getting to the start line again soon.

The post marathon run is delightfully shorter and less intense than the marathon itself. One’s sense of accomplishment lingers and it’s enough to just move along at a comfortable pace.   Maarathon how far you can goWhatever remaining stiffness I began with starts leveling out.  My form improves, my mood elevates and by the end I’m in tune with the essential basics of “just running.”

Lots of runners want or need recovery time of no-to-little running after a marathon.    Others find they need a mental break from following a training schedule with numerous long runs.  The running experts I’ve already alluded to will often advise taking a day off from racing for every mile in the race just run. Marathon photo Kara

None of that works for me.  While I like to think I’ll keep running forever, the reality is that some day be the one in which I run for the last time.  As long as I am still able, I want to get my running shoes back on as soon as I can and start planning for the next marathon.

And right now, that next one is one of my very favorites.  It’s the one I’ve run the most.  We who are getting ready for it are the luckiest runners in the world.  And I never, ever, take that luck for granted.

Marathon finish





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Life Well Lived: running Tomoka

tomoka bay

Strickland Creek


She ran a marathon Saturday.  It was a good one.  She enjoyed the course, learned about a part of Florida she hadn’t visited before, and skipped in under 3:40.  Still, it wasn’t her plan to write about it.

‘ I write about running, but this isn’t one of those weekly race report blogs,’ she thought.   ‘Who wants to read what I was thinking about at mile 16?   (Even if I could remember, which I can’t.)’   Besides, she’d run over 160 marathons in the last dozen or so years.  
Then she noticed the race website had invited her to like it on FB, so she did.  A  post there mentioned the local paper hadn’t given the race much coverage.  That was all she needed.       
Upon hearing the name Tomoka Marathon, you are forgiven if you are unable to place it geographically with your first three guesses.  A savory dish of  swamp cabbage if you can, as Tomoka is an area near Ormond Beach, Florida.  Tomoka is a corruption of Timucua, the indigenous people who once lived in Volusia County.  That’s on the Atlantic coast, south of Jacksonville and near the Daytona/Orlando area.TOMOKA
The course is on “the Tomoka Loop,” designated as one of Florida’s Scenic Highways.
As I tripped along (it was pre-dawn) the first several miles, not only did I appreciate the promised “old growth forests,” I surprisingly was reminded of some Montana and North Dakota marathons I’d run.  Not that those states had palm trees, but the straight expanse of solitary road stretching as far as I could see was reminiscent of rural races.
 We fell into a quietly companionable single file, soaking in  unobstructed vistas of two rivers, barrier island dunes, inland creeks and marshes.  The simple beauty of the land inspires even as it insidiously intimidates.  No thronging crowds; the occasional supporter with her lone cowbell encourages, while inadvertently underscoring the enormity of the task at hand.
Birdsong accompanied us between the welcoming cheers of the dedicated volunteers aiding us all along the course.  So glad I decided to run without earbuds and really experience the unique terrain and atmosphere here.   At an out and back well past the midpoint, around miles 18-20, we got to see one another and caught up with some of the half marathoners. tomoka out and back
We knew what lay ahead.  Visions of reveling in the beauty of the finish area filled our heads.  The race starts and finishes amidst The Casements, a winter home of the Rockefellers and now a public cultural center.  tomoka 2  To earn it, however, there was the matter of a bridge.  The one that you had to surmount just after passing the 25 mile marker.
Along with seeing to all the details that make a good marathon great, the RD had a spirited group of pacers for us.  Just in time,  Daniel Bucci pulled up alongside me on the climb and urged me onward.   Soon we were rolling downhill, around the bend, under the bridge and across the finish line to the celebration.  And it, like the race, did not disappoint.   We left with a true appreciation of the race motto on our beautiful finishers medals: “Live your life well.”


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Week 9 / Day 2


Drivers, hungry and bored, clamber home over the bridge

in congested lines. Tree swallows distract and amuse,

swooping and gliding along the river: glinting arcs

in their own supper quest.swallows

Pedestrian shadows elongate in the lowering light.

A lone runner on her fifth interval muses

as she accelerates past the earth-stuck cars.

bridge traffic 1

Her arms are wings this time.

She is pulled forward, pumping

and pulsing—faster, farther—feathers fluttering

Around her flowing form as it crests the bridge.


Twilight deepens; the bridge lights flicker on.

The birds, not sated yet, sail on still searching.

swallows pic

Repeat. She jogs back down to her start line to begin again.

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Runs of luck and splendor: Spring!


This weekend blossomed with friendship and the promise of spring everywhere I looked.

Here’s a bouquet of some of the lovely things I want to share:

A dad of a newborn tending to their son so mom could run a 5K (and pick up an AG award).  He even took photos of us and posted them on FB.

Another young mom running the same 5K, smashing her previous PR but not being able to attend the awards due to her other Saturday morning responsibilities (o yes, her award was carefully collected for her.)

A woman running her friend’s first half with her, reluctantly leaving her at the friend’s insistence to finish ahead.  Then-despite a very sore hip that had been screaming at her for the last 4 miles–insisting on heading back out on the course to find her friend…..only to be intercepted by another caring runner friend, not injured, who went back to find the newbie and run her in, along with several other support group folks.   Happily, smilingly united at the end.

The fortitude of the afore-mentioned woman with the painful hip, who just.would.not.quit.running-motivation-quote--746x420

A man running his first half at age 60, finishing second in his AG and being greeted by numerous friends and running buddies, clearly proud of his accomplishment.

The charming young talented runner celebrating her birthday by gathering her friends to run a half with her, and her selflessness at cheering them all on  even though it wasn’t a PR day for her.

Some runners not running the half who got up in the dark anyway and drove an hour+ to support, cheer on, and photograph their running friends.

Another runner with the group who PR’ed by a bunch, but kept quiet out of modesty.  And several who bore down and kept going when it got hotter.  And hillier.  And more humid.  They finished.

The teacher who runs so efficiently she makes it look as if she is hardly working, always ready with a smile and encouraging word.  And she’s a TEACHER, the hardest job in America.  I mean, how does she do it?

That always cheerful, concerned runner who carefully follows her own training schedule, so ran slower races both days than she is capable of running, but never talked about it (she’s training for Boston) and also was everywhere taking photos, cheering on others.

The husband and wife who run races on weekend and always inspire me with their steadfast faith and their love for each other (not to mention one of them who keeps me honest in races by beating me or making me work to keep from being beaten.)large

A cancer survivor who started her own race 6 years ago to benefit colon cancer and runs with the warrior spirit…..she never fails to call out to other runners to urge them on, and in addition, she’s one of the best dressed runners on whatever course she graces.  And she is beautiful.

The people who didn’t race, but put in long hours on long runs, training for Boston or helping their running buddies train.  They know it’s good to think positive, but that alone does not get you across the finish line.

The coach of most of these people, leading by example, and running with a form and fleetness most of us only can admire, but not emulate.  Thank you.

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How it begins?

I live in a beach town, only not anywhere near the ocean. My mom and my brother and I have a dumpy little two bedroom house that my mom says “we’re lucky to have because: one, it’s a house, and two, the landlord takes Section 8,” which if you don’t know, is a kind of system where the government helps pay your rent. Which we need since even though my mom works two jobs, she gets paid peanuts.  She explains this is “because I didn’t go to college and you and brother are. definitely.”  Yeah, she says it just like that.  Every time, at least twice a day.section 8

I get home from school first. Most of the time, I like having the house to myself.  I have my own room, but since my mom sleeps on the couch in the living room, she keeps her stuff in my room and gets ready for work while I get ready for school.   We have a schedule and Mom runs it like a….well, I can’t think of anything that keeps on schedule as perfectly as Mom.

Like how she comes home from her second job on Sunday and goes right into the kitchen to cut up vegetables and stuff so we can have homemade suppers. Fast food is definitely.not.allowed.  That was me saying it that way.   Personally, I wouldn’t mind an occasional sack of burgers and fries.

Anyway, for the past couple months I’ve been antsy.  It’s winter most everywhere else but here we have highs in the 70s, sun and your basic spring weather.  Once I do my homework and chores, I usually read or work on our vegetable garden. garden  About three weeks ago, I finished a book about Abebe Bikila, an African guy who ran the marathon in the Olympics.  He only got added to the team at the last minute when the main dude  got hurt.  And get this: he didn’t like the shoes his coach brought so he ran it barefoot.  He won the whole thing, too.Bikila

I wasn’t so inspired that I felt like running without shoes,  but I did pull out my Chucks from under the bed.  ‘Why not?’ I thought.  So I headed out for a run.  We live near a river and there’s a decent bridge over it where I’d seen people walking and running.  That’s where I went.

Running felt good.  It was about a half-mile to the bridge.  There’s the challenge: my state is pretty flat, except for bridges.  I started the uphill, feeling it in my legs, my lungs.  I was on the pedestrian side.  There’s a low wall between it and the bike lane, which is next to traffic.  And you know where my mom would have wanted me.

The sun’s starting to let us know it’s gearing up for the evening show.  Over to my left, in the bike lane, is this old lady, running.  She smiles, nods, and speeds up.  What is this, some runner challenge?  OK, I’m in.  Bam!  We’re crazy running like 10 year olds over the bridge.  I get ahead of her, but dang if she doesn’t pass me on the downhill.  What?  I mean, she has grey hair and all.

At the end, she waves and runs on toward downtown.  I turn around and run home, kind of wondering if she’ll be there tomorrow.chucks




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