The Loping Journalist

It was going to be a special Sunday morning. I could tell by the temperature: 54 degrees! And this after some draggy hot, humid, muggy weather that seemed like summer had arrived in September. On Saturday, I ran the Kyle Bankes Memorial 5K in Beverly, pushing it pretty hard, came home and was good for absolutely nothing until I collapsed at Bill's feet and he made me glug a quart of Pedialyte. Blaaa to running when it's already 80, with 90% humidity, at 9 AM. But yay to the 5K. Love that event. I'll be back, bad toe and all, next year.

The sun pushed over the east hill, and I asked Chet Baker if there might be a deer back of us. He checked and said no.

Sunbeams or spirit lights? You be the judge. There were definitely sunbeams playing through the trees. But the ray coming off Chet's head has me truly baffled. Lucy? Anyone? 

I was so happy to be back out with my shadowdog, redeeming myself. I run a lot better in 54 degrees than 83.

It was one of those days that makes me happy to be alive.

The pond was reflecting the sky perfectly. It looked like a hole in the cosmos.

The path stretched ahead of me, inviting me onward, as it always does. When it comes right down to it I'm terribly spoiled for running. I go do these 5K's through suburban neighborhoods and wonder why I'm not in my beloved hills and hollers instead. It's the camaraderie, the society of other runners, the good cause, I guess. The vast majority of them are younger than me, and leave me far behind. Even people who obviously don't run much beat me. They walk long stretches, sprint a little ways just to get past me, huff and puff and sweat buckets and turn bright red and still leave me in the dust. I just keep up my steady trot and try not to feel bad when I see my time. 5K's are very humbling. Give me the silence, the crunch of gravel and a limitless cerulean sky any day. At the end of a beautiful day, I figure if I'm covering at least 4.2 miles every morning, I'm doing something good, something right. 

My friend Allen, who is a Real Runner, was kidding me about whether I was going to be stopping to take pictures as he and Beth whisked past me. Allen and Beth are lovely, long and lean, and have produced a little pack of Real Runners. Good genes. And I said, "I'm not a runner. I don't pretend to be a runner. I am a Loping Journalist."

Even though the news I bring is not of much consequence to the world. Like how the Three Graces might look on a September morning, backlit.

Or how much Pinky's calf has grown this summer.

Or how much indigo buntings love foxtail seeds.

This is my morning news. It's the only song I want to hear.