Saturday night at the art studio. i’m on my second DOA IPA. gerald, jimmy and mo are painting as they plot to take over the world, or at least lower broadway.  plans are made for the place’s 20th anniversary. jimmy announces the joint has a new rule. whenever someone says DANCE, you have to stop what you’re doing and dance. he suggests the robot. mo is skeptical. jim morrison is in. 

it’s a good night. i ran a hard 4 today. a cold front blew in, so there was an insane 30 mph north wind.  when it’s that strong, it’s just silly. i was running the fountain, so it was a mile each way. i tried to think of the wind sections as hill training, except hills don’t threaten to sweep you into the ocean. the tailwinds are a party. interval training without the formalities. and lordy i hate running in a bow tie. 

in the end, i guess it worked. my legs are pooped, my head is fuzzy, and i’m trying to think  up excuses for the impending DANCE decree. 

the group decides on what music is next. Black Keys, everyone agrees. and so, natually, they play the Verve. i sorta love artists. this could be why i married one. 

can a runner fit in with a pack of artists?  i hope so. we share the same skewed vision of the world; toys on the misfit island. the solitude is mutual; the loneliness of the long distance painter. runners and artists  are always searching for something magical over the next horizon. a life of self-imposed suffering.  “The true runner is a very fortunate person,” dr. sheehan wrote.” He has found something in him that is just perfect.” i guess we all have. or at least we continue down the trail on our quest. 

or maybe i’m one too many IPAs  into the evening. santana’s playing black magic woman. my legs are feeling happy. i’m  waiting for jimmy to yell  DANCE. i’m in. just another saturday night at the art studio …