It’s just another run. You probably had one recently. Out and back. No wind, no epiphanies, no packs of rabid dogs. Just another run.
It’s hot and humid and I lost the Trail Monkey. I’m listening to the shuffle, which seems to be stuck on a mix of Sparklehorse and Lisa Loeb, two places you don’t want to be when looking for motivation.
Work has been hard, so this hour is my purge of the day. I run along the seawall (gulf wall? bay wall?) and people-watch. Two old guys are staring at the engine of a mid-’70s Chevy Nova. A bunch of high school students sit on the beach steps. I have no idea how they could’ve gotten that sunburned in one day. Crazy Homeless Guys, couples, pretend fishermen. I love the rhythm of the beach.
I’ve been running here for a couple of weeks and like it a lot. There are a lot of runners and walkers, and the company feels good. There is much sidewalk, but I’ve developed a series of detours to maximize the dirt. And bathrooms along the way! Life of luxury.
I run to the L where the yacht club resides as the turnaround for the day. A sign informs me that I cannot wash my clothes here unless I am a member. I am not, so I resist the urge. Shrimping season is ending (did it start?) so the guys are winding down. I pretend to belong.
The run home takes too long. I end up with 5.2 miles at a 12:50 pace and that’s good enough. It’s hot, I’m tired, Lisa Loeb is annoying.
As I run through the First Baptist Church parking lot, Ani announces that she’s 32 flavors and then some. I don’t think the Baptists would approve.
I shut off the watch and stroll the last quarter or so. My heart rate is high, my shirt is smelly, my Trail Monkey is living a bohemian lifestyle somewhere on the beach, my outlook for the evening is bleak. All is right in the world.
It’s just another run.