The Post Card (Part 2) I placed the postcard in the banana basket. Sun streamed through the patio doors. Looking out on the unfinished deck, the yellow caution tape, the rotten box of rusted nails. I needed a run. Feet pounding, “Jaws clenched tight/ Oh but what the hell did we say/ The good times are killing me.” A little louder, a little longer. I remember Stan and I and a handful of other young punx riding west on a whim to see Planes Mistaken for Stars play in a garage in Denver. Baptized in caffeine; Modest Mouse blaring as loud as a set of twelve hour drivers nerves and open windows allowed. “Get sucked in and stuck in late nights.” Coffee shops, diners, and Moons Over My Hammy. “How was your run dad?” Boy Wonder asked. Who was this small man, that everyone said looked an awful lot like me, that watched my every move? Who was this small man who wanted to know about my run. Who was this small man who would interrupt me as told him about how the 5th mile almost took my legs away, but I pushed through and the final three were transformational, and that I saw and felt each grain and cornstalk in the fields. I crossed paths with a young twenty something running twice my pace and could do nothing but think, wow she’s got a great stride. “It was fine dude.” I said. “I hit 8 miles today” and he had tuned out faster than an old fashioned TV with tin-foil rabbit ears as antennas. “I ran past a purple Garble-hoffer, and saw it run away from the Trafflehoarger.” The cursory head nod was bestowed on me; I stumbled to the kitchen sink and the banana basket caught my eye. I prepared my post workout, protein, chia, flax, please let me live a little longer because I’m scared to die, shake. Training for a marathon sucked. I wasn’t sure why I was doing it, other than it fit perfectly into my poor man’s midlife crisis. I couldn’t afford to buy Porsche’s like my father. Heck, I could barely afford to drive the aging Prius in my driveway.
Posted on: Tue, 30 Sep 2014 02:05:59 +0000
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