by jdawgsrunningblog

This is one of those ‘oh shucky darn’ moments. My wife said she was taking our exchange student up to the WWU arboretum for her weekly outdoor excursion, and she asked me if I wanted to come and do a run while they did their walk. That means I would need to wait until 3 p.m. for the big Sunday run. I put that piece of information inside my loose noggin, and convinced myself that at least for this day I would practice not being afraid, not being worried, that I would pretend that everything in my tiny universe was happening as it should. In other words, I would only focus on doing what was the right thing to do. This wifely suggestion came across the screen as the right thing to do. My own alternative involved another slog through Cornwall Park, one that I could ‘get over with’ two hours earlier.

The only caveat I could think of was the waiting part, and as Tom Petty called out, it can sometimes be the hardest part. Not to bring trock and roll  philosophers into the mix, thise trite nuggest that sound so much better when accompanied by three powerful chords, harmonized against some steely drums, and austere vocals.

Dang if the earlier snow flurries hadn’t stopped and the skies hadn’t cleared by the time we arrived on campus, and my wife left me to my devising, her taking our exchange student and the young lady’s Portuguese friend.  “See you in an hour or two,” said my wife.

Me trying to figure this out, the bright sun and very chilly wind, and working up the mojo for something delicious. Starting to warmup by jogging inside the oval, on the field turf.  Oh, that’s what I usually do—very uninsipiring. Then a bolt of light, the seeds of an idea. Leave the bag behind, and head up the arboretum yourself, j.dawg.  I can actually do a warmup on an actual trail.

And what a trail it is, rolling ups and downs, all the way up to a tower with expansive views of  Bellingham bay, and snow-capped foothills.  Then looping around a gently sloped return—twenty minutes of this forested jog, rays of sunshine bursting through, splashes of mud kicking up, sword ferns and douglas firs illuminated, the silent canter through these timeless  forest.

Returning to the track, where an octet of WWU soccer players hone their skills, and single student practices his lacrosse zings. Stray bullets kick across the lanes where I’m  jazzing out some 100 meter repeats. I pause to snag the hard rubberized victims. He shouts out his gratitude. Insurance against me getting knocked around during my impending workout.  Thinking I’ll kick out some 800’s like I did last Tuesday. Feeling better ad lighter today. That warmup was a good idea, and I need to remember to do that more often. Longer warm-ups. Yes.

Stroking through the 800 in 3:03, deciding to just keep going. The mile in 6:07. Keep going. Let’s make it a 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 1 workout. Yeah, that’s the ticket—four miles.  I can do this. Those soccer sized beasts are now banging out 100’s—one after the other. I ain’t thinking about stopping as long as they’re doing their duty.

My wife shows as I’m wrapping up the final two 400’s in 1:28 and 1:26. She excitedly tells me about the bald eagle she saw when she got to the top of the arboretum. It was just her and the eagle, she says. No one else was around.  It was like the eagle was there for her, and they were in cahoots with each other. She doesn’t want to call it a spiritual experience, or magically real. Not her style. But something was going on up there. I could tell by the lift in her tone,  her attempt to communicate and describe its flight, the proximity of their encounter, how the expected boundaries and definitions between man and bird dissolved. This fact of integration and unification, communication and an understanding about how the non-human exists and experiences life from one moment to the next.  Subtract the analysis and the neurosis, the expectations-and there you have it. it being every damn thing under this sun.

“Wasn’t it great?” bubbles my wife. “Look at this view right now of Gabraith mountain. This is like we’re on vacation, like we’re living in Boulder. And we get to experience this every single day. We’re so lucky. No that’s not the word. Fortunate. We’re fortunate to be living here.”

Fortunate.  Yes. Fortunate that my wife decided to go on this little adventure. Fortunate she decided to invite me to come along. Very fortunate.  And fortunately I agreed.