9 miles
the confluence
63 degrees / humidity: 84%
9 miles! Still not easy, but I felt strong and relaxed and steady. For most of it, I ran 3 min, then walked 1. For 2 of the miles, I ran 90 sec, walked 30. Those miles were about 40 seconds faster, which might have been too fast; I think they made me more tired and increased my heart rate. When I hit mile 8, I thought, on Sunday, this will only be the halfway point of my run, but before I could dwell on it and wonder how I could run that much more on Sunday, I thought about something else, or I stopped thinking altogether.
When I was in the shade, which was about half the time, I felt cool-ish, but when I was in the sun, I was hot. So much sweat! I hope it cools down in September.
I wasn’t sure which route I would take this morning — to Lake Nokomis and back or the Confluence. I told Scott, I’m going to run south on the river road and let my body decide which one — either I’ll turn at Locks and Dam no. 1, or I’ll keep going past the falls. I’m not sure when I decided but, by the time I got to the locks and dam, there was no doubt I was turning.
10 Things
- looking down from the ford bridge, the water was smooth and still — I think I saw some sandbars just beneath the surface
- the river water was also low — I could see a long stretch of green (grass, I think) where there has been water in past years
- the gate that K and I had to squeeze through because it was locked a few weeks ago was open today
- hidden falls was quietly falling
- a tall man sitting on a bench, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, talking on the phone — I remember that I hear what he said, but I don’t remember what it was
- the click of a bikers shoes clicking into their pedals
- uneven brick — not broken but raised by (un) settling ground
- stopping at my favorite bench, which was in the shade, reading the plaque beside it as sweat dripped off of my face
- a lone skateboarder at the skateboard park — saw them in flash, heard the scuffing of the wheels
- more filled benches than empty ones
I’ve decided to leave my shoes in the picture because I like the color of them. I just received an email that my new pair or Saucony Rides are arriving today — they are navy with aquamarine.
Looking up her name online, I found this short video that offers more images of where I was when I took this picture:
Diana Jean Jezewski was 20 when she died of cancer in 1999. So young! She was born 5 years after me. She graduated from Highland Park High School and had been captain of the volleyball team. What type of cancer did she have?
Looking at the poems-of-the-day, I found this fitting one on poets.org:
ghost ranch / kristin lueke
once again i’ve brought my dead dog to the party.
not the box of ashes, but the pen-drawn sketch
my friend lenny made six days after she died.
or five. i saw it coming, the way mimsy went.
the hard part was saying it, so i wrote it down:
something small i love is leaving me.
now it’s late morning in abiquiu & i’m alone
in the courtyard, rolling around on the flagstone
breathing, a drawing of mimsy in the shade,
a mug cooling at her side. i said i don’t drink coffee
or need a week to myself but look at me now, trying
not to lie. so i listen: a shrill of pinyon jays
in a juniper trills me from ghost to cobalt sky. all winter
i didn’t see them, not a single thrill of murmuration
& though it’s a hideous sound—a jay’s call, like a
small computer dying slow—to live, to move like that:
seven siblings at my side, six at each of theirs, my god!
not thinking where’s the threat but being
more than one, not less than any . . .
the nearly-noon shadows recede & soon
mimsy’s in full sun, where i leave her, the light
too bright to stay, the shrill too clear. i say yes,
i’ve seen a rock wren & no, that is a fishless osprey circling
the steppe & tomorrow i might make a cairn of quartz
just to knock it down, slip a stone into my pocket,
put nine postcards in the mail, or begin another poem
for lenny i’ll try to finish when i’m home—
you had a friend once.
now she’s different.
we remember what we need.
Much to think about and love in this poem. A question: does a bluejay really sound like a computer dying slowly? I guess I don’t know what a computer dying slowly sounds like. What I know is that a bluejay screech is grating and terrible — I recall thinking it sounded like (or, maybe felt like?) a dull knife hacking the silence until it ripped open.