I’m out running 3 miles on the jackalope (11:59). The wind is still blowing, but it’s cool and sunny. A perfect running day. I wave at Fast Guy, chase the two gazelles, dodge a skateboarder. Body feels good; heart is heavy.
He was out running on the White Rock Creek trail in Dallas a couple weeks ago. Serious runner. marathoner. Boston. Just another run. And then a crazy guy with a machete, a 21-year-old tortured former Texas A&M football player, jumped out of the bushes and hacked him to death for no reason. Just. Like. That. 53 years old, GE engineer, genuinely nice guy. Gone. I thought it was the saddest story ever.
I was wrong.
His wife talked about him afterward in an interview with the local newspaper. “Dave was the love of my life and I’m lost without him,” she said. “People need to know that this was a wonderful person going out and doing what he loved to do.” She talked about the life they had shared, the dreams they had planned that would never come true, her struggle to go on. “Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I can sit there and think, but I can’t think too hard,” she said. How does one go on after that?
Her name was Patty. She was 54. She was found dead yesterday in their home, an apparent suicide. Plan N.
I finish up with a mile under marathon pace, hit the save button and stand for a minute looking out at the beach. The waves come in, then go out, seemingly forever. But nothing lasts forever.
I go home and eat some ice cream. Because you never know. It was just another run.