Tag: morning

aug 29/RUN

9 miles
lake nokomis and back
75 degrees / dew point: 72

I thought it was supposed to be cooling down this week. I was wrong. This run was tough and I was slow. Still, I pushed through and did it. 72 is a high dew point — in the miserable and “adjust your expectations” range. I tried to remember that as I ran and then stopped to walk. Mostly I did and was kind to myself.

While the run overall was difficult, it wasn’t all struggle. Running up the hill between Lake Hiawatha and Lake Nokomis, a walker called out, looking good! There were wild turkeys along the side of the road. The buoys are still up at the main beach. There was more shade than sun. The shadows were dancing in the wind. The river water was sparkling, the creek water was gently moving, the lake water was softly lapping the shore.

Recently, I heard a suggestion for keeping a steady rhythm on a long run: listen to a metronome. I decided to try it, at 175 bpm. Pretty cool. My phone app metronome was set for even beats not a time signature (like a heavier downbeat) so I heard steady, unstressed clicks. It was strange and fun when I lined up my feet with the beats so it sounded like my foot was making the noise as it struck the ground. It reminded me of the scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when the librarian is stamping the books at the same time Jones is stamping the floor with a heavy post. As his ink stamp hits the page, a loud thud happens, and he wonders (while staring strangely at the stamp) how he could be making such a noise.

I wonder what might happen if I did set the metronome for different rhythms, like 4/4 or 3/4 or 6/8?!

anne carson

The other day I discovered an essay by Anne Carson about her experiences with Parkinson’s, especially with trying to navigate tremors and tame uncontrolled movement. My experiences with vision loss are very different, yet I recognize similarities in terms of focused attention as a way to combat constant motion.

Righting oneself against a current that never ceases to pull: the books tell me to pay conscious, continual attention to actions like walking, writing, brushing my teeth, if I want to inhibit or delay the failure of neurons in the brain. It is hard to live within constant striving.

Gloves on!/ Anne Carson

Righting oneself against a current that never ceases to pull . . . When I swim across Lake Nokomis, I trust straight, steady strokes to get me across the lake. I’ve lined up the buoys, set a course, then let my good form (shoulders, head position, breathing on both sides with even strokes) lead me to a buoy that I usually can’t see. I also have help from the lack of current in such a small lake. When I swim across Cedar Lake, those same straight strokes don’t help as much. I have to adjust constantly, fight against a current I can’t quite feel. When I don’t, I drift into the middle of the course, then too far over to the other side where swimmers are heading the other way. Even as I try, I can’t read or properly predict this current — is it a current, or something else? Often I drift. On my best loops, it feels awkward, forced, too conscious — more lifting my head to sight, a constant swimming against water that wants me somewhere else.

Since being diagnosed with a degenerative eye disease, I’m giving conscious, but maybe not constant, attention to how I see, to the complicated process of seeing. Some of this attention is out of curiosity and astonishment. And some of it is about helping neurons to fire in new ways and learning how to see differently.

The uncontrolled motion I experience is not tremors, but images that constantly shift and shimmer and buzz, usually in ways too subtle to see clearly. I feel them — soft notes of disorientation, dizziness, restlessness. Maybe you could call them tremors? The ground never ceasing to unsettle.

Recently, I’ve been writing about the different definitions of still. Is the constant motion I see never still? I’m not sure. I think I’m striving for new ways of defining that word and of accessing the feeling of being still, enough, calm.

aug 26/RUN

3.1 miles
river road, south/north
77 degrees / dew point: 75

Heat advisory. Today is one of those days that makes me glad that fall is coming, especially since I can’t swim anymore. I’m looking forward to cooler runs — please come soon. I heard a pro runner say once that humidity is a poor man’s altitude. I wonder, since my body doesn’t tolerate humidity well, would it be the same with altitude? Probably.

Today is RJP’s first day of college classes. It has worked out for her to regroup and not stay in the dorms until she’s ready because her dorm doesn’t have air conditioning. Even if she was enjoying the dorm, she probably would have come home until the heat breaks anyway.

10 Things

  1. exposed roots everywhere on the dirt trail, difficult to navigate
  2. one short stretch of the trail had loose, sandy dirt that my feet sunk into
  3. forecast predicted partly cloudy, but the sky was cloudless and burned a bright blue
  4. car after car after car on the river road — this is often the case at 8, which is when I started my run
  5. loud waves of cicada buzz
  6. noisy bullfrogs and crickets in the marshy meadow just past the ford bridge
  7. more bikes than walkers or runners
  8. the dirt path into the small wood by the ford bridge: a deep, cool green
  9. a flushed, sweaty face
  10. a woman in a big straw hat and a pink something — I can’t remember if it was her shoes or pants or a shirt; I just remember pink — sitting on a bench, her back to the gorge

today’s view from my window

On august 26, 2023, I wrote about a big spider outside of my window. She’s back. She’s huge. And she’s just hanging there in mid-air. I know there’s a web, but I can’t see it, so I like imaging she’s levitating. I was going to write that she’s not moving, but then the wind stirred her, and then I noticed a small fly caught in her web. Soon, she crawled to it and now she’s doing whatever spiders do to their prey. If it didn’t hurt my head to stare and try to see what is happening, I could watch her for hours.

I looked for a Mary Oliver poem about spiders, but instead found a blog post talking about spiders and their patience and referencing a poem by MO that I haven’t read before:

The Messenger/ Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
     equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand. 

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
     keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work, 

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
     astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here, 

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
     and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
     to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
     that we live forever.

aug 24/RUN

14 miles
franklin – ford- hidden falls – confluence
66 degrees / humidity: 82%

Whew, that was hard, and I was slow, but I did it! Those last couple miles, I had to dig deep. During mile 13, my calf kept almost cramping up when I ran for more than a minute or too, so I mostly walked. But by the last mile, I could mostly run. Sitting on my deck to write this, the cicadas are so LOUD! I wonder what the decibel level of their vibrating thoraxes is? I’m proud of my run — that I kept going, that I don’t care how slow I am, that I could be outside and moving for almost 3 hours.

14 Things

  1. cool, green shade on the west side of the river
  2. a male coxswain to his rowers, 1 minute and 26
  3. music blasting from a bike speaker: “Mr. Blue Sky”
  4. a group of runners joking around — male runner 1: so what’s next for you? male runner 2: umm. . . mr1: Are you doing the city of lakes? mr2: oh, of course — you don’t want to know about my personal life, just my running
  5. a lean, fast runner, running barefoot (I saw him last week too, but forget to write about it)
  6. passing a woman in pink shoes, she called out, good work. I called back, you too!
  7. Mr. Morning! — morning! / good morning!
  8. the interior of a porta potty — so much colorful (and well-done) graffiti — very cool
  9. east river view, on the way to the confluence — beautiful blue water, open, gently curving way below me
  10. too many leaves to get a view of the mississippi and the minnesota at the confluence
  11. music blasting from another bike speaker: Katy Perry’s “Firework”
  12. view from the ford bridge: a white boat, alongside a rowing shell
  13. someone running with a dog, her shirt tucked into the straps on the back of her running bra
  14. 2 runners ahead of me, both in trail running vests, one wearing bright orange shorts

For years, I’ve wanted to run the stretch of trail between Hidden Falls and the Confluence. Today I did, and it was longer and hillier than I expected. Also, beautiful.

water fountains where I refilled my bottle: 3
porta potties stopped at: 1
bridges crossed: 3
cliff blocks consumed: 6
shirtless runners encountered: at least 4
coxswain’s overheard: 2
roller skiers passed: 1

I almost forgot: near the monument, I was thinking of stopping at the porta potty in the parking lot, but just as I reached it, I heard a shirtless runner call out to his group of runners — hey, I gotta poop. He stopped and heading towards the bright blue porta potty. Guess I won’t be stopping — bummer.

Yesterday Scott and I move RJP into her college dorm. She was overwhelmed — too overwhelmed. It’s exhausting and heartbreaking, but I think we’ve come up with a plan for her that will keep her on track (I hope). She will start her classes and gradually get used to stuff, and then start living at the dorm in a week or so.

aug 22/RUNSWIM

3.7 miles
marshall loop
61 degrees / humidity: 80%

Cooler, but thicker air. Did the Marshall loop for the first time in months. Running up the Marshall hill wasn’t too bad. I don’t remember what I thought about, except briefly hearing my steady foot strikes and imagining them to be a stillness in contrast with the traffic and the wind and the noises everywhere around me.

10 Things

  1. running up the hill, I felt the presence of orange — pinkish orange light. Was it from a wildfire sun? an orange sign?
  2. zinnias! more orange and pink
  3. running past Black coffee, noticing a man sitting at the counter, facing the window — I think he was reading the paper
  4. running past a walker on the hill, breathing as hard walking as I was running
  5. messed up slats on blinds in the window of the garage that is up against the sidewalk — blinds in a garage?
  6. steady traffic on the east river road
  7. overheard, a runner talking to 2 other runners: and when you got injured, and you got covid, I realized, ok they’re human too
  8. the river, running towards the marshall bridge — slate blue, empty
  9. yellow leaves on one of the earliest trees to change color
  10. an unusual stone stacking! 3 different stacks precariously placed on the slanted part of the boulder

Running on Cretin, I saw (but didn’t stop to read it) another poem from the St. Paul poetry project. I checked the map and maybe it was this one?

Untitled/ Pat Owens (2010)

A dog on a walk,
is like a person in love – You can’t tell them
it’s the same old world.

Saw this quote from Louise Glück and wanted to remember it:

I tell my students who believe passionately in explaining the work they’re sharing, “You know, when you’re dead, you can’t go around explaining this thing–it has to be right there on the page.”

Interview with Paris Review/ Louise Glück

Continuing to think about still and its many meanings.

still (def.)

  1. a static photograph, movie still
  2. an apparatus used for the distillation of liquids
  3. inactive, motionless, static
  4. silent, soundless
  5. placed, quiet, unruffled, tranquil, smooth
  6. noneffervescent, not sparkling
  7. free from noticable current
  8. calm down, quiet, lull, tranquilize
  9. hush, silence, shut up
  10. allay, relieve, ease
  11. without change, interruption, or cessation
  12. howver, nonethelss, yet, all the same, even so, nonetheless

swim: 5 nokomis loops
cedar lake open swim
74 degrees

Since Lake Nokomis is closed due to the sewer break, the final open swim was at Cedar Lake. It was windy and felt much cooler, both in and out of the water, than mid 70s. Brrr! Even before I got in the water, I had goosebumps. The water was very choppy — lots of breathing on my right side, some breathing every 2 strokes. I’m glad I didn’t really need to sight because it was difficult to see anything in the choppy water.

10+ Things

  1. sailboat with a white sail — have I ever seen a sailboat at cedar?
  2. a tall person, upright, on a paddle board with a dog
  3. scratchy vine, stuck on my googles
  4. scratchy vine, wrapped around my shoulders
  5. scratching vine, feeling almost like a full body scan as I crossed over it
  6. vine, reaching up from the bottom, clinging to my foot
  7. faint feelings of red and orange in the trees
  8. following behind a swimmer with a pink buoy, always just ahead, sometimes getting lost in the waves
  9. the soft, fading light as the sun dipped lower
  10. pale blue sky with feathery clouds
  11. a seagull span soaring above the water, looking for fish?

The last open swim of the season. As I swam my final loop, tired out from the waves and cold, I tried to take the moment in. Such a wonderful season. I leveled up — swimming much longer and for more loops. I felt strong and confident and not afraid when I couldn’t see anything but water and sky and Tree. Part of me wishes open swim would never end, but the rest of me knows that 10 weeks of swimming this much, especially outside in a lake, is enough. In January and February, I’ll remember the first orange buoy looking like the moon in an afternoon sky or the glow of orange when the light hits the buoy just right or the gentle rocking of the waves or that satisfied feeling after 90 minutes in the water.

aug 21/RUNSWIM

5.3 miles
bottom of franklin hill turn around
66 degrees / dew point: 61

A great run. Was scheduled to do 9 miles this morning, but since I’m also doing my final open swim tonight, thought I’d break it up over 2 days instead. Felt strong. I’m figuring out how to keep my heart rate lower and I can feel it helping. Everything’s easier (or, not quite as difficult) — breathing, lifting my knees, moving forward, staying upright for almost an hour.

10 Things

  1. stacked stones
  2. a loose slab on concrete that rocks when you step on it wrong (or right?)
  3. an abandoned bike under the franklin bridge
  4. the water under the bridge — blue then brown, something under the surface disrupting the flow, creating small waves
  5. Dave, the Daily Walker — Hi Dave!
  6. beep beep beep — the alarm under the trestle going off
  7. rowers! a coxswain’s voices giving instructions
  8. a roller skier, laboring on a flat stretch of path
  9. the hollow knock of a woodpecker
  10. the loud crunch of an acorn under my foot

Before the run, reading through the post from august 21, 2023, I rediscovered Robert Frost’s poem, Come In. As I read it, I noticed that the word, still, in the line, Though it still could sing. I clicked on the link; it was a list of different definitions of still. Nice! I don’t think I created this link, I must have copied it from somewhere else, but where? Anyway, I love the word still and have written about it many times on this log. During my run, I decided to think about what it means to be still.

I thought about being quiet and calm and the opposite of restless and anxious. Then I thought about my core — literally and figuratively. Core = my core muscles, strong back, a straight spine. Core = enduring values, character. I felt the stillness within my self and my body even as the world blurred and floated and drifted around me. Then, Mary Oliver’s “deepening and quieting of the spirit” popped into my head — amongst the flux of happenings. Yes! A stillness of the spirit, where stillness is being satisfied and balanced and present in the moment, not needing to do more or feel guilt or regret for what was or wasn’t done.

The last thing I wrote in my plague notebook before the run was from Maya Angelou: Still I rise. I thought about Michelle Obama’s speech at the DNC, which I watched while eating breakfast, and her beautiful words about her mother and the importance of honoring elders and continuing their legacy and the need for endurance and enduring. I thought about the still in Still I rise as continuing to show up in the face of suffering and injustice and also as a sureness and clarity of conviction, especially when it becomes hard.

swim: 4 nokomis loops
cedar lake open swim
76 degrees

More great swimming. I feel strong this year — no sore shoulders or neck or back — powering through the water. Buoyant, relaxed.

Cedar Vibes, 10 Things

  1. someone calling out, I think I could swim to that orange buoy and back. That’s it!
  2. 2 swimmers on the other side of the beach from the open swim course, swimming farther away from buoys and lifeguards and the course
  3. a swimmer rounding the orange buoy and then swimming perpendicular to the course
  4. a wetsuit with a yellow safety buoy swimming the wrong direction
  5. music blasting at Hidden Beach — Don’t worry/about a thing
  6. scratchy, persistent, loose vines floating in the water
  7. scratchy nets of vines, reaching up from the bottom, trying to entangle me
  8. a canoe with a person in the water hanging off of it, stopped in the middle of the course, trying to decide what to do
  9. more swimmers way off course, on the wrong side of the buoy
  10. an annoying teen repeatedly (20 times, at least) calling out, Get out of my way!, in a VERY irritating voice

Before the swim, I was thinking more about still and I remembered the expression, still waters run deep. Then I thought about depths and surfaces and my recent efforts to push myself to dig a little deeper with things I’m passionate about — that’s why I’m training for the marathon again.

aug 19/RUNSWIM

4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
68 degrees

A late start (9:45 am). Warm, but lots of shade. Ran all 4 miles without stopping. Progress! I think I’ve figured out, after 8 years of trying, how to run slower. On my warm-up walk before I started a woman with a dog called out to me, I love your hat! It’s so bright and cheery! A wonderful start to the run. I was wearing a pinky-purply-swirly cap that I found in Scott’s mom’s drawer — with the tag still on — after she died. As I walked, I thought about color and how I see it and caring, kind gestures, and then a really BRIGHT hat that I’ve considered wearing before: a twins baseball cap, girls (because my had is that small!), with neon pink and orange and yellow that we bought for RJP and that she never wore. Maybe that will be my next hat when this one is worn out?!

10 Things

  1. acorn shells covering a neighbor’s driveway
  2. 2 runners ahead of me, one dressed just like me with black shorts and a teal tank top, illuminated by the light, glowing like ghosts
  3. a dirt trail near the ford bridge leading into a cool, mysterious wood
  4. a sidewalk above the creek half-covered in dirt, washed up from so many rains this summer
  5. no bike surreys lined up by the kiosk today
  6. the sweet smell of tall grass — a hint of cilantro
  7. trickling sewer pipe
  8. a slash of blue water through the trees — not sparkling or inviting but hot and harsh
  9. an animated conversation between 2 women walkers with laughter and hand gestures
  10. a for sale sign on a house near edmund — the house that had new owners a few years ago who moved a drain pipe so that it spills onto the sidewalk, creating puddles in the summer, ice in the winter. Will new owners move the drain?!

Before the run, reading old posts from 19 august, I re-discovered a wonderful poem about the wild girl the narrator used to be, Girl in the Woods / Alice Wright. I tried to think about the last lines as I ran:

Whever I think I’ve got hold of her, 
she kicks my shin and wriggles from my grasp, 
runs for the trees, calls back, Try and catch me —

I wanted to imagine that my wild girl, Sara age 8, was my shadow ahead of me, but it was difficult because I didn’t see my shadow that often. Maybe she was there, but hiding from me, daring me to try and find her?

uh oh

Just received an email from Open Swim:

Due to a sanitary sewer backup near Lake Nokomis this morning, August 19, all beaches at the lake are closed until further notice. The overflow has been stopped and cleanup has occurred. The MPRB will sample lake water at the beach locations and provide further updates when they are available.

We have to cancel Tuesday August 20th’s swim at Lake Nokomis. Thursday’s swim is TBD. Communication will be sent as soon as updated test results are known.

Cedar Lake is still happening on Monday and Wednesday, but open swim at Lake Nokomis might be over. It’s sad, but I’m okay. I have had a great season, swimming more loops than I ever have before! I should be able to get in some solo swims around the white buoys before the beach is completely closed.

Sanitary sewer backup? Yuck!

Sadly, many people are afraid of Minneapolis lakes and think they’re dirty and dangerous. While the lakes can have elevated E-coli levels and occasional sewer back-up issues, mostly they are fine to swim in. I’ve been swimming in Lake Nokomis for over 10 years, 3-4 times a week, and I’ve never gotten sick. Anecdotal, I know, but there’s also data to support my experience and management plans and daily/weekly work to ensure the water is safe to be in. Here’s a great resource I just found that I’d like to dig into — to learn more and get some poetry inspiration. It’s a white paper from 2019 called Lake Nokomis Area Groundwater and Surface Water Evaluation.
Another resource: Minneapolis Parks Lake Resources

swim: 4 nokomis loops
open swim cedar lake
80 degrees

Wonderful conditions! Buoyant, calm water. Hardly any wind. Strong legs and shoulders and lungs.

10 Things

  1. the light on the trees, giving off a hint of red, almost as if the leaves were whispering, fall is coming
  2. the light, lower in the sky, making everyone/everything give off a soft glow
  3. the surface of the water — smooth, sometimes blue, something army green, sometimes reflecting the fading light
  4. a paddle boarder moving through the course, standing straight on his board, looking very tall and upright — I think it was a lifeguard
  5. 2 swimmers treading water in the middle of the lake, chatting and catching each other up on their lives
  6. scratchy, insistent vines, wrapping around me each time I rounded the far buoy near hidden beach
  7. bubbles! barely seen in the opaque water
  8. mostly warm water with brief pockets of COLD
  9. talking with another swimmer after finishing, lamenting the nokomis closure and the end of another season — I said, we didn’t even get to say good-bye
  10. the lifeguards on kayaks were way out on the sides of the course, making the course much wider. I kept trying to go out farther to reach them but the lake kept wanting me to swim closer in — is it a current?

aug 17/RUN

12 miles
franklin-ford-past hidden falls
66 degrees / showers

12 miles! It took a long time, but I did it. And, other than needing to go to the bathroom, I felt good at the end.

For the first 2 miles, I ran alongside a 1/2 marathon race. Three things I remember: 1. the loud slap of a fast runner’s feet, 2. another fast runner calling out as she passed slower runners, on your left, and 3. near the top of franklin someone from the race was playing music — Sia’s “Cheap Thrills”

Throughout the run, it rained. Not all the time, but in brief bursts. Mostly light and refreshing, but near Hidden Falls the sky unzipped and I got soaked. For the last half hour, my shorts were drenched. Yuck!

Heard the rowers near the beginning of my run, saw Dave the Daily Walker at the end. Also at the beginning I was passed by 2 runners, one was shorter and did most the talking (and mostly about running), the other was tall and agreed a lot. Saw these runners again about an hour in, and then near the end. They must have been doing a long run too!

The view of the river from the ford bridge was beautiful: blue water framed by green trees. The view of the gorge near Hidden Falls was also wonderful. I couldn’t see much, but I could feel the openness.

Between miles 6 and 7, I passed a woman who was breathing heavily as she ran. When I stopped for a minute of walking (I was doing run 9 mins, walk 1 at that point), she passed me. Then I passed her when I started running again. I was worried that this would keep happening and that I’d hear her wheezing and gasping behind me for the rest of the run, but she turned off when we reached ford. Whew!

Aside from getting drenched at mile 8, the weather was good for running. The on and off showers were refreshing. Running near Hidden Falls, the sun came out from behind the clouds for a minute, and it got hot. I worried that the rest of the run would be too wamr, but then the clouds rushed in and I got soaked.

For 10 of the miles, I listened to the rain and other runners and the falls. Then I put in my winter playlist for the last 2 miles.

aug 14/RUN

8 miles
ford-franklin loop
70 degrees / dew point: 64

Oh that sun! Too bright and warm! Advice for future Sara: get up earlier and pick a route in the shade. The sun sapped my energy and made me sweat even more than usual. Dripping ponytail, wet shirt, damp face. Had a few brief thoughts about cutting the run short and crossing at lake street, but didn’t. I remember reaching that bridge and hearing a voice in my head whisper, there’s no turning back after this. I’m proud of myself for continuing with the run. Did it get easier? I’m not sure, but I didn’t think about stopping again or doubt that I could keep going, and the last mile felt good, like I could have run longer.

On the warm-up walk before starting my run, I walked over dozens of acorns on a neighbor’s sidewalk, under their huge tree. As I walked, I could hear more acorns falling. I wondered if one would land on my head (it didn’t). I’ve been noticing the acorns for the last couple of weeks, hearing them hit garage roofs and the alley asphalt while sitting on my back deck. Usually the acorns begin falling at the end of July, so mid-August is a little later for me to start noticing them.

All I remember about crossing the ford bridge was that I had just started and I was already overheated. So hot in the sun! Running (and walking) across the franklin bridge, I looked for rowers (none) and noticed the sandbars just beneath the surface and the current, moving fast. It reminded me of some lines I read from Gave by Cole Swensen:

from Gave/ Cole Swensen

You walk alongside the river. No; you walk always with. Not down, or along, or beside. And you can’t help but measure–is it moving faster? And does that mean each molecule of water? Or does a body of water form internal bodies, pockets that move in counterpoint, in back-beat, in eddies? And does the surface ever move? Or is it something underneath that does? Of course, yes, the molecules of water that form the surface must certainly go forward, but does that mean that the surface itself moves too? Then what is a standing wave? What stays? I watch a large branch being carried down by the river, and then a kayaker, moving faster, then turn to walk back upstream like I’m walking into the arms of some thing.

I haven’t thought much about the distinction between being with and beside. I like beside as next to, and imagine it as a possible form of being with the thing you are in proximity to — a new way of being in community with others?

Reading through a great article about Lorine Niedecker, Dwelling with Place: Lorine Niedecker’s Ecopoetics, I’m wondering if a focus on with, and not just beside, is partly about seeing the river as another community member, not a thing/landscape/scenery you walk beside, but someone you walk with. And now, reading the CS’s lines again, I’m thinking of the idea that the walking with the river is describing how the water is moving too, so you’re not just walking past something that’s next to you.

I’m also thinking about the Sheldrake quotes I posted at the end of yesterday’s entry, on stability and flux and how we (bodies) are processes, not just things. Some of CS’s questions seem to be getting at this, wondering what part of the river fluctuates, and what part of it is stable.

aug 12/RUNSWIM

4 miles
trestle turn around
60 degrees

4 miles without stopping to walk and negative splits on each mile. A mental victory! That’s good because marathon training is getting serious now. A 12 mile long run this week.

A beautiful, cooler morning. Sunny and still. Quiet and calm. I tried to see the river, but the trees were too thick with leaves and the railing at the trestle was just slightly too high to see anything but sky. Heard 2 different coxswain’s voices and tried to imagine the rowers slapping their oars on the water. One of the coxswains called out, 22 — 22 strokes? 22 seconds? Greeted Mr. Morning! who seemed a little subdued today — not morning! but morning. Noticed an empty blue sky, a black sweatshirt tossed behind a bush in a neighbor’s yard, and a black baseball cap with an Addias logo on a retaining wall. Wondered why there weren’t any stones stacked on the ancient boulder — did a wind blow them off?

overheard

1: one runner to another after running up Franklin hill — I think my quads are okay

2: someone coming out of the portapotty to their companion — I’m glad it was clean!

3: a kid on a bike to an adult walking while looking at their phone — do you like walking 20 miles?

sharks

There is no such thing as shark-infested waters, in the same way that there is no such thing as a child-infested school. You cannot infest your own home. Fear is, of course, a great good. It can be a form of wisdom. But if we could reorient the sentiment–and direct it, for instance, toward those humas whoese vested interests lie in persuading us to acquiesce in the living world’s destruction–we would fare better. Beward an ExxonMobil-infested State Department; beware a fossil-fuel-infested politics. These are dark times, and there are many things to fear. But none of them are found swimming udner a vast sky as the waters around us warn and empty.

The Fin and the Fury / Katherine Rundell

swim: 6 little loops / 3 big loops
cedar lake
82 degrees

Finally, a chance to swim at cedar lake again! Perfect weather: calm lake, warm air, sun. The surface of the water was smooth. Below, the water was opaque. I couldn’t even see my hand. Got tangled up in some sharp and scratchy vines. Noticed some birds soaring high in the sky, some canoes crossing the path. Before the swim, I smelled cigarette smoke. After the swim, weed. The water was more than one temperature: almost bathwater warm, then freezing, then no temperature at all.

aug 10/RUN

10 miles
lake nokomis and back
61 degrees

10 miles! It’s been some time since I ran 10 miles. I can’t run it as fast or as effortlessly as I did back in 2017 or 2018, but I did it, and it wasn’t bad, and I don’t feel terrible. Each week, I’m getting a little better and mentally tougher.

Sunny, cool, calm. I liked the moments when I was able to run on the soft dirt, on the boulevard or beside the paved path — the feel of fine grit under my feet, the sound of it shushing — sh sh sh, it is time, now, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit.

Heard a coxswain’s voice, below in the gorge. I just realized that I usually write, “heard the rowers,” but I hardly ever hear the boats or rowers talking or oars cutting through the water unless I’m down in the gorge, next to the river. What I hear is the coxswain’s voice and I think, Rowers!

I don’t remember seeing the river, but I did admire the beautiful blue of the lake. So blue! So inviting! The lake was crowded — some people walking, running, sitting, other people preparing to set up the course for tomorrow’s ywca tri. Halfway around the lake, I started hearing sirens, more and more of them. A few minutes later, I saw them parked on the road, lights flashing. I’m not sure what happened, but I hope everyone’s okay.

On my way back from the lake, I passed by a coffee shop where we used to get coffee when we lived over here. The outdoor seating was full of people. I liked listening to the buzz of conversations — no intelligible words, just the pleasant, relaxed sound of a Saturday morning in the summer.

10 More Things

  1. a roller skier’s wheels — squeaking, sounding old or rusted or rickety
  2. a fine mist above the falls
  3. a runner blasting some music as he ran by — can’t remember what he was listening to
  4. a view of the water from the bridge: a stretch of sparkles
  5. ducks, taking over the water at the little beach
  6. a little kid to his dad at the beach, can I throw a rock in the water? dad: since no one else is here, you can
  7. turkeys! 4 of them by the overlook, a kid calling out to his dad, turkeys! turkeys!
  8. a few seconds later, a dog barking at the turkeys
  9. a group of runners listening to “treasure” by bruno mars
  10. Mr. Walker-Sitter! sitting on his walker next to the fence on the edge of the trail