Dark. Cold. Spandex. Headlamp. Reflectives. Buff. Gloves.
Thus the morning was started over a cup of coffee. For a few weeks now I’ve been mentally threatening to run again. Hell, I just ran a marathon at the end of September, you’d think I love this shit. I do. But I don’t. But I do.
Other runners will understand such flip-floppery.
I’ve barely done 10 miles since that Quebien overture. George Mac will certainly understand, but that banter is for another blog. (Yes, we have outrageous plans to run ultra-marathons—MdS 2019. You’re late, Macpherson.)
In the pre-dawn night of the ass end of Hallow’s eve, there wasn’t much to see coming down the road. That is, until two little beady eyes came out of the ether at the horse farm along Lewis Crik. No growl, no pounce. Just two beady little eyes of a dopey little doodley dog that wandered right up to me.
He must have already had his scary Cujo makeup warshed aff. Just saying hello, escorting me past the horses.
We’re all scared of the dark
Write something that scares you. Advice of the ages for the flat writer. Sometimes everything comes out like it doesn’t matter. What does matter, though? What scares people matters.
Me? I’m scared of two flat spots on the five mile loop I did this morning. They awaken a pretty special primal fear. Especially in the bleach black dark. Bears. A bear wouldn’t be out of place in them there woods. Every time. Occasionally a thought is spared for a catamount. I’d be so lucky to spot one…
Thick evergreens hang down over the road giving it a claustrophobic, but exposed feel. Musty, dank. You could imagine a colonial scout never returning from such a place. Prime for a predator lying in wait for some idiot dressed in spandex and shiny shit. Like a fish lure for bears, wiggling down the road.
Being a morbid cuss with a vivid imagination and a lot of time to think while running, I wonder how many times I’ve been mauled in my mind in those places. Healthy fear, I like to think. I need some bear bells. “Hey, bear!”
Fear and fear itself
According to an extensive two-minute google search, fear is actually what most Americans get anxious about. That and walking alone at night. Being approached by dogs? That’s gotta be up there, too. Actually it’s probably the big cheese upstairs that everyone is always fighting about, misinterpreting or taking too literally. Maybe God is a dog.
Jesus was dyslexic.
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