running richmond


over time, i've learned to trust that i can be cold in certain ways. i know that feeling on my skin, when the air temperature is low enough that i wish i had another layer but i also know that if i run for long enough, the blood pumping under my skin will create a bubble of warmth around me, so long as i never slow down.

it's hilly where i learned to run. i've learned to not cherish the downhills so much, because i will eventually need to climb right back up. i've learned to love the uphills, because that is how i earn a long cruise on the other side.

in a flat city, i fly over bridges. i take advantage of visiting during a big city race, knowing that many roads will be closed for the benefits of the race entrants. i cruise up long, spiraling on-ramps and dance across the narrow median to skip onto the trails. above me, the sky opens blue with a stiff wind. i call back to the crows, releasing the trill from the back of my throat until i see them hesitate and circle back to look at me.

i careen around a corner, spraying gravel through the curve; unexpectedly, an orange climbing helmet catches the corner of my eye, right before i see the unmistakeable gesture of an arm drawing rope out of its coil. there's a retaining wall holding the hillside together, and i run loops around the trail until i catch the unmistakeable sound of carabiners clinking at someone's hips. in the middle of the city, under the bridge, on the old rail pillars, dozens of college students cling to the flagstone, teaching each other how to tie down their fears.

the river trails are magnetic to me. i pound along them, leaping through bushes to cut corners because i saw an even better long, straight flat that wraps around the bank. i pass a man who paused his trail run to do box jumps on every boulder protecting the trail from a parking lot. i pass dogs. i pass strollers parked next to the canal. i pass hundreds and thousands of runners limping back from the finish line party, shivering in blankets while their friends lead them back to their cars.

i'm warm, and i smile at everyone i pass. when i get back to the parking garage, i skip the elevator, skip the stairs, and run up five stories of ramps because i missed the hills that taught me how to run.

Permalink
11 November 2018 22:04


snippets


4 november 2018

when i walk to the bathroom with the backlight of my ereader leading the way, i see a spider rotating chaotically in the space in front of my knees. somehow, it clung to me. i plucked a thread i could not see, trusting that i had captured it only because its swinging became more erratic, and stuck the strand to the bathroom sink.

do insects understand when they are inside, or is the indoor/outdoor divide only a human construction? ants march along my windowsill in seeming confusion, even after i wipe down their paths with ammonia day after day.

once, a spider fell into the large format printer at work and got run over by the print hear, rows and rows of ink sealing it into the paper. nothing in the history of spiderhood prior to that moment could have prepared it for such an experience.

what is an equivalent disaster for a human being?

Permalink
09 November 2018 00:40



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