Tag: no headphones

may 28/RUN

4 miles
mississippi river road path, north/south
83 degrees/dew point: 64

Wilting. Melting. Sweating. Sticking. Dripping. Barely 8 in the morning and even the shade is thick with heat. By the end of the first mile, my pony-tail is dripping sweat onto my shoulder. Breathing is difficult. My chest hurts. My face feels bright red. Hardly any moments of clarity, where I wander into a thought or an image or an idea. What, other than heat, do I remember? My favorite part of the path, just above the steep slope down to the river, was cool and dark. I greeted the Daily Walker. Most of the path was in the shade, even if it was still hot. I saw groups of bikers, runners, a rollerblader, a roller skier, walkers with dogs or children or coffee in their hands–I hope it was iced. Listened to a playlist that was stuck on a short loop, playing the same 5 songs 3 times in a row.

During the winter, I focused on the sounds of crunching snow. Maybe for the summer, I’ll focus on the textures and sensations of sweat and heat? Will this source help me? Thermodynamics in verse, the poetry of heat. (note, 28 may 2024: this link no longer works)

may 27/RUN

3 miles
mississippi road path, north/south
76 degrees/67% humidity

Another hot run. Ran the first mile fast, then took a few walk breaks. Listened to headphones and blocked out the world. Greeted the Daily Walker at the end. Don’t remember much else.

may 25/RUN

4 miles
to minnehaha falls and back again
67 degrees/91% humidity/dewpoint 61

Ran early this morning. 6 am and already 67 degrees. Today, 90. Tomorrow, 95. Sunday, 97. I do not like running in the heat. This morning it was okay, especially since I was only running 4 miles. When I got to the river, I turned right instead of my usual left and headed towards the falls. A few minutes after me, Scott went out for a run too, but turned left at the river. My path was clear but his was blocked by a big tree, split in two during the heavy winds and thunderstorm last night. Listened to my running playlist so I didn’t hear birds or rushing water or snapping branches. I have no memory of what I thought about while I ran other than mundane running thoughts like: “I feel like I’m running fairly fast but I bet I’m running slow. I shouldn’t look because then I will just feel bad.” or “I need to make sure to focus on using my left leg so I can build up the muscles in it.” or “I don’t know if this rhythmic breathing works for me.” What else do I remember about my run? Running right by the falls and enjoying the coolness of the spray from the gushing water on my face and arms. Happily drinking water from the fountain that has finally been turned on. Feeling soaked from sweat even before the end of the first mile.  No bikes. No roller skiers or roller bladers or dogs or bugs. One squirrel that almost darted in front of me but then wisely turned around. Several pairs of runners, one trio. A woman stretching her calves on the concrete ledge where Longfellow’s “The Song of Hiawatha” is etched.

Again, everything was green. A lush, post-rain green that glows and overwhelms and spills out over the path from below and above. Late May is very early for that shaggy, scruffy, weedy, much too green feeling. I usually don’t feel that until July or August. I love the green, but I’m ambiguous about weeds. In theory, I appreciate their unruly resilience but, even so, I struggle to see beyond their disruptive excess–blocking my view of the river, covering the path, housing too many bugs. Here are 2 poems for reflecting further on this ambiguity, one that I encountered today, the other I read last fall:

Long Live the Weeds/Theodore Roethke

Long live the weeds that overwhelm
My narrow vegetable realm!—
The bitter rock, the barren soil
That force the son of man to toil;
All things unholy, marked by curse,
The ugly of the universe.
The rough, the wicked, and the wild
That keep the spirit undefiled.
With these I match my little wit
And earn the right to stand or sit,
Hope, look, create, or drink and die:
These shape the creature that is I.

Surrender/Geraldine Connolly

Rogue seedlings flank
the front bank.

Aspen roots lift
asphalt
from the driveway’s face.

I can hear
growth

like a crackle
of flames.
I watch a frantic

squirrel hoard
pinecones,
strip them clean.

Weeds choke the garden,
thorns and buffelgrass.
Wild blackberries seethe.

I scrub green moss.
Still it spreads its stain

across the deck, and
falls into cracks where
green sprouts flare up.

I fight against surrender but
the trees call to me
as they creep forward.
The forest wants to take us back.

may 21/RUN

8.2 miles
almost downtown turn around
63 degrees

Cloudy. Overcast. Almost light gray, which made the green glow. Running below the road and above the gorge, on my favorite part of the trail, the green enveloped me. Today I liked it. Sometimes it’s too much. Too much green. Too much vegetation. I especially feel this way in August when everything is overgrown and buggy and hot. Smelled lilac and honeysuckle. Remembered growing up in North Carolina and sucking the honeysuckle flowers that grew on the barbed-wire fence at the edge of our property. Felt steady and strong. Managed to keep running in several spots where I wanted to stop. What else do I remember? The construction worker walking on the franklin bridge that I could see as I approached the bridge from below. The 2 walkers that turned around and stared as I approached them. Passing the Daily Walker.

may 20/RACE

10K: 55:06
women run the cities

A beautiful day for a run beside the river! Sunny. Not too much wind. Not too warm. I decided to run this race to redeem myself for the get in gear 10K that I ran 3 weeks ago. In that race, I fell apart in the second half and walked a lot. In this race, I did much better. Starting slower and running through the bad moments. I still walked once–for about half a minute–and ran much slower than I have in the past, but I feel good about the race. What do I remember? A long line for the porta-potties. The energetic and entertaining way the women in front of me gestured with her hands as she talked. The woman behind me, describing her late night drinking and ordering domino’s pizza. The woman ahead of me in the race corral discussing meeting a random guy while running a marathon and then stalking him online later. The extremely off-key version of The Star Spangled Banner someone sang right before the race. A woman making this weird waving motion while running beside me. What was she doing? Being confused at the start of the lake street bridge because everyone was running on the sidewalk and not the road and then almost missing Scott cheering me on. Running up the Summit hill and hearing a woman encouraging her friend: “you can slow down but don’t walk.” Feeling grateful when “Back in Black” came on my running playlist and pumped me up. Trying to avoid all of the potholes. Crossing the Ford bridge and then seeing the long stretch of road before we turned down to the falls and wanting to stop and walk–but not doing it. Turning down to the falls just as the theme from Rocky started playing. Smiling as I finished.

bonus: Later, Scott and I biked to the game. 12 miles total. We weren’t biking too fast, but it was some nice cross-training. It’s always easier for me to bike when I’m following someone else. With my vision, I can bike but it can be difficult. Sometimes–not every time–it takes a while for me to really see the path, especially when going down hill. I see that it’s there, but I can’t quite find the edges. Usually, I trust that I’m following the path, even when I can’t completely see it.

may 11/5.25 MILES

48 degrees
20 mph wind
franklin loop

Brr. Colder today and a lot more humid. Overcast with rain coming soon. Everything is overwhelmingly green. Windy. Had my headphones on and my hood up for the first mile. Felt disconnected, in a dreamy state. Almost floating on the path–not flying but hovering. The floor of the floodplain forest is no longer visible. Just a sea of green. Clashing greens–mostly yellowish green, with a few darker blueish green patches. After running over the Franklin bridge I also couldn’t see the paved path down in the east river flats. Crossing back over the Lake street bridge, I saw some rowers–2 shells out on the river. I love watching the rowers. Finished my run feeling strong and fast.

may 10/3 MILES

60 degrees
mississippi river road path, north/south

Running in the afternoon is harder. Hotter. Windier. Listened to my playlist and felt pretty good. My knee felt okay, even though it temporarily displaced last night, right before dinner. Walking over to the cabinet to get a placemat, I stopped and felt a sudden shift. First pain, then shock. I could feel that the kneecap was out of its groove. I was able to pop it back in place by pushing on it and walking up the stairs. I hate that this happens. No warning. No abrupt twisting, Just a sudden, abrupt moving out of the groove. My kneecap displaced last month like this and was fine after a few hours, so I was pretty sure I would be okay. Still, it sucks when this happens. I wonder, when will it happen again?

note: I didn’t have time to write this log after my run, so I’m writing it the next day. I couldn’t remember much from the run.

may 7/5.75 MILES

69 degrees
ford loop

9:15 am and 69 degrees? No thanks. I love so much about spring and summer but not running in the heat and the bright sun. Hardly any shade. Listened to headphones and felt disconnected. Thought I was doing okay, but near the Ford Bridge, it started to feel difficult. Stopped to walk for a few minutes on the bridge. Strangely, walking today didn’t bother me or make me feel like I failed.

This very warm weather is coming too soon. Last year on May 7th it was only 51 degrees. Much better running weather. Everything is happening too soon and too fast. My view down to the river is almost gone. The floodplain forest is covered in green. A beautiful shade of green, but that’s not the point. I want to see the river and the sandy trail through the forest for at least a few days more. Yesterday when I was walking near the river I heard the rowers! They’re back. I looked down at the ravine as I ran up the hill near Summit. No water today. Tried to run mostly on the dirt trail next to the uneven path. Noticed the raging river at the locks and dam. Ran by a walker that I encountered in the same spot last week. If I keep running this loop in the morning, will he become a new Daily Walker to watch for? At some point during the run, around the time it was feeling especially hard, I wondered–am I getting enough iron? Resolved to eat more spinach and maybe take an iron supplement. Finished strong, running faster and feeling freer. Stopped at the water fountain but noticed too late that it wasn’t working yet. Saw my shadow–in front of me, then beside me. I think she likes the heat and the bright sun. Sweat a lot more. Face felt bright red. My hair was completely soaked and dripping by the end. Next time I run I’ll need to bring some water.

note: While quickly proofreading my log, I noticed a theme: water. A lost river view. Rowers. A lack of water in the ravine. The raging river below the bridge. A water fountain that doesn’t work. A sweaty, red face with a dripping ponytail. The need for water to drink.

Returning home, I discovered a new poem to love from The New Yorker: “Eating Grapes Downward” by Christian Wiman. I especially love the opening stanza:

Every morning without thinking I open
my notebook and see if something
might have grown in me during the night.
Usually, no. But sometimes a tendril
tries a crack in my consciousness
and if I remain only indirectly aware of it
and tether my attention to the imminent
and perhaps ultimately unseeable
sun, sometimes it will grow. Inevitably
a sense of insignificance intrudes: I think
of all the lives in all the places
waiting in their ways
for something to grow out of them,
into them. Is it the same God?

Love this idea of indirect awareness. So important to how I am living these days–with my writing and my vision and even my running. Want to experiment with ways to write about it/with it/around and through it.

april 30/5.75 MILES

57 degrees
ford loop

Windy. Almost raining. A great run. Signed up for a 10k in 3 weeks on the same course as the one I just raced. I’m hoping to redeem myself and feel strong in the second half. Hoping to run the route many times and practice better pacing. I ran it today, starting at a slow pace. It was great. Listened to my playlist. Felt like I was in a daze for the first few miles. Disconnected, almost floating. Love that feeling. Running across the bridge I put up my pink hood because of the wind; I was worried that my almost destroyed green hat would finally blow off and into the river. I imagined the log entry I’d write memorializing it. Encountered a few runners, not too many walkers, 1 or 2 bikers. No Daily Walker. No roller skiers. Thought a lot about keeping slow and strong. Anything else? Didn’t feel any rain drops. Didn’t see any more snow. No puddles to dodge. Just wind to run into. A few hills to climb. 2 bridges to cross.

april 21/3 MILES

47 degrees
greenway bridge turn around

Another beautiful morning. Don’t remember much because I was listening to my headphones. I think I saw my shadow a few times in the bright sun. Saw lots of runners, alone and in groups. A few bikers. Walkers. No roller skiers. No puddles. No ice, except for under the lake street bridge. Ran faster and felt the joy of working harder. I definitely need to do some more speed work to get used to pushing myself.

Encountered a wonderful poem that reflects my feelings about the slow arrival of spring:

The Change/ Alicia Ostriker

Happening now! It is happening
now! even while, after these
grey March weeks—
when every Saturday you drive
out of town into the country
to take your daughter ot er riding lesson
and along the thin curving road you peer
into the brown stuff—
still tangled, bare, noting
beginning.

Nothing beginning, the mud,
the vines, the corpse-like trees
and their floor of sodden leaves unaltered,
it makes you want to pull
the steering wheel from its coket,
or tear your own heart out, exasperated
that it should freeze and thaw,
then freeze again, and that
no buds have burst, sticky,
deep red, from their twigs—

You want to say it to your daughter.
You want to tell her also how the grey
beeches, ashes and oaks on Cherry Hill Raod
on the way to her riding school
feel the same, although they cannot
rip themselves up by the roots, or run about raving,
or take any action whatever, and are almost dead
with their wish to be alives,
to suck water, to send force through their fibers
and the change! to change!

Your daughter, surly, unconversational,
a house locking its doors against you,
pulls away
when you touch her shoulder, looks out the window.

You are too old. You remind her of frozen mud.
Nevertheless it is happening, the planet
swings in its orbit forward,
she cannot help it. And what has melted
trickles under the ground, to ends of roots.