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.
11 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
- almost forgot this one: everything was dry — the grass, the dirt that trickled down the bluff almost like water, the leaves, which sounded very loud in the quiet morning
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.