“If this whole running thing doesn’t work out,
think I could make it as a ’90s hiphop B boy?”
— the prophet molly seidel
—

The advantage of running in Flagstaff over South Scottsdale is that you get to have Beaver Street pizza and watch for Molly Seidel wandering the streets afterward. Also, you can smooch on the courthouse steps where you were married 7,227 days ago, give or take a leap year. And you get to run on the magical trail that’s home to world-class legends and everyday pedestrians alike.

Oh, and that 7,000 foot elevation thing.

But pace on the beloved buffalo loop was still the usual 14-minute parade, same as back home in the lowlands. Maybe the cooler weather offsets the thin air. Could be my fading heart is just set to autopilot at 14:10 pace no matter what. Or possibly i was keeping something in the tank in case Ms. Seidel flew by on the trail and I needed to lay down a few 5:30s to catch up with her. You never know.

I ran loops with the trail monkey, who didn’t mind slowing down for me as long as i held him up occasionally to share the vistas. And this joint has vistas to spare. The San Francisco Peaks on the horizon, cotton candy clouds providing a curtain for them, those things they call “trees,” which apparently are sort of like saguaros with no arms. Weird.

A glorious day, the perfect companion, a fine oatmeal stout. A too-brief respite from the insanity of the planet. Oxygen is for suckers.

It’s sad to watch Flagstaff change. The swarm of California license plates, the fence around the ghost of Barnes & Noble, the construction engulfing the open spaces around the edge of town. We once dreamed of living here. Funny how so many dreams are slipping away.

But we still have each other, and a damn fine pizza, and another four 14-minute miles in the bank. Everything else is just cake.