the quote floats around in my head like a wayward balloon stuck in a tree at the mad dog playground. you can never have too much sky. It’s from a sandra cisneros story, or possible a mike tyson tattoo. i think it’s a metaphor, but it could be a simile. or possibly a fartlek. it’s hard to tell without my spectacles.
may 2 is so far away, and so ominously soon. why are races like that? run the mile you’re in, they say. i don’t know who they are. run the day you’re in, the life you’re in.
i am desperate for this race. i cling to this last hoozah, a curtain call. a jaunt up the beloved mountain to stand on top of the world, shake my fist at the clouds, and look back one last time. it’s been a good climb, but i want this goodbye. i NEED this goodbye.
four weeks in, it’s going ok. i don’t much care about what my time will be. i mostly worry about making the cutoff, a flashback to houston in 1984, back in the days when 4 hours was the slowest time allowed. mickey, my old roommate, ran in cutoffs and declared he would never be passed by a female. we live, we learn, we lose.
i commune daily with uncle hal. the miles make sense, the paces feel right. this could work. 96 days to go, give or take a leap year.
but the wheels are falling off on the dementia express. i need to go and do my part so i can live with myself. and i am not an easy person to live with. how does one say “i would love to keep an eye on him, but first a 16 miler”? the guy led me on all my best adventures. i must go on this one with him. is there really room for both?
and still, the clock ticks. metaphorically. it’s a garmin. but i have a rock on the bottom of my left shoe that clicks when i run, so there’s that. one of billie eilish’s middle names is pirate? keith richards is still alive? “track is closed” means the track is closed? running is complicated.
four weeks down, blank pages ahead. the birds line up to cheer me on. i still have my toenails, my ambition, my love for the simple joy of going out each day and running till my heart wants to explode from joy or suffering, my need to bang away on my typewriter, a monkey longing to make the stars weep. one last time. that’s all i’m asking. one last time. please.
you can never have too much sky …