By Bob Hodge
With a purpose I started slowly. Late afternoon sun through the trees beginning to change color. I read my body heart rate, raising my arms – a bit of heaviness – as I climb a small rocky rooted path and make my way to the road. Main Street.
My thoughts wander but I am in synch with my body language providing constant, instant feedback. I relax. In my mind I am floating along like Billy Rodgers light stepping across pavement barefoot like Abebe or raw power in motion like Jim Ryun— but in reality just me.
I cross the river and head toward the sea.
I stalk the undulating roads and myriad trails of this southshore Massachusetts town daily and in tune with the environment while oblivious to the daily lives of the citizens and neighbors. I do my thing, I run.
I climb the long hill by the little post office focused on my breathing and my efficiency and as I crest relax my thoughts entertain girlfriends love lust wonder lust this weekend’s long run with my mates or a low key race makes my heart accelerate a bit to picture it, the joy of the competition and conviviality afterward.
I picture it.
I cross the river again this time closer to the sea all the little fishing boats and some yachts shiny happy people I imagine with martinis. I timed my run perfectly as the sun set and I looked into it and remembered a song and that song raised my heart rate gave me chills and carried me the remaining miles home.
Home is the “sugar shack” tucked away in the woods a quarter mile from the road up a dirt road. I stopped for a chat with the goats in their pen. Occasionally, a known naughty one, the ring leader I named “Van-Goat” because one of his ears was bitten off, would jump the fence and come over to my window and look in – surprising me.
I gulp a quick drink of water from the garden hose, then step in the shack and grab a cold beverage or two from the fridge and walk down the path to the river.
I walk to the end of the dock, strip down nakey and dive in. The tide being high and perfect, almost dead even with the dock. I float on my back and lightly kick in the chill. Summer ended, perfect fall New England. I will miss this when winter comes and presents its wonder and challenges.
I sit on the dock a while and take in the scene, then hustle back up the path. Pull out the five-dollar hibachi grill, slather a piece of swordfish with mayo and lemon, wrap it in foil and light the barbi.
A quick shower. Fish on green beans steamed. I sit down to my little feast and peruse the Farmers Almanac, Track & Field News and the novel of Japan Shogun or maybe Aaron Burr by Gore Vidal. I also write a bit in my running log. and after a cleanup– tidy up of the little place make a pot of tea and curl up on my bed perhaps watch some television on my little portable black and white TV.
The Waltons, Sanford and Son, All in the Family.
It is eight o’clock at night, barely dark, I read with some sporting event going on in the background from the television.
At nine I brush my teeth and drink a large glass of water.
Lights out.
From “The Life of a Runner” – an RSE production.