The Walk-Run

So after getting up and drinking at least one cup of coffee, I head out for my walk-run every other day as a complement to cycling. I have a great 3-mile course laid out across the street doing loops around a Moravian cemetery, where the tombstones lay flat instead of upright for some reason. Some are decorated with American flags while others have the occasional flower. Squirrels dance between the graves, and if I'm early enough, I'll see a fox or two. If I'm lucky, sometimes I see a pretty lady that I can pretend I'm not looking at, even though I am.

I usually don't even begin to run until I have the first mile under my belt.  Yesterday, as I completed my first lap, I could see one of my neighbors, an old drunk who sells his SNAP benefits to a barkeep every month. He glared at me as he waited for a ride and was shouting, "Come across the street, mother fucker, and I'll break your nose!" 

Where the Hell did that come from? I decided to ignore the guy and began my second lap, going uphill and trying to steady myself on uneven surfaces, littered with branches from the previous night's rain. There are usually two dogs at the crest who bark wildly every time they see me. "Come across the yard, mother fucker, and I'll break your nose!", they are saying. I usually say Hi to them, but they were sleeping in so there was no greeting. Just dancing squirrels.

As I finished my second lap, the old drunk was still waiting for his ride, still glaring, but smoking a cigarette. But I pretended not to notice him again and started my third lap and hill. This is when the sweat starts, and this is when I start running in small spurts. 

I have pretty bad hip arthritis, which is why I mostly cycle. But I still love running and miss the days when I felt I could go on forever. This was not one of those days. Almost immediately, my left hip was in pain, but I pushed ahead because sometimes tit goes away after the joint is lubed up. This was not one of those days. I was still making good time and continued, as the sweat began to pour out of me. 

As I finished the third lap, the old drunk's ride had just arrived. It was an old beat-up truck taking him somewhere to a job where he worked off the books. As he got in, I could see him waving his arms and pointing at someone, but it wasn't me. 

Lap 4 begins again. After I reach the top of this mini-mountain, I begin to run again, thinking about different stories I could write, wondering why the tombstones at this cemetery are all flat and listening to crows yell at me for invading their turf. I'm running a bit faster now. 

On my fifth lap, I am running a bit faster and am now drenched in sweat and am starting to feel pretty good except for the arthritis. 

After the sixth lap, I keep running and head to a nearby Catholic church, where I can hear the kids scream and well as they play. My left leg nearly gives out twice. I am slowing down, but feel good. 

Eventually, after 3 miles, I stop. Finished. Drenched with sweat. Endorphins have kicked in, but so has the arthritis.

I see a neighbor and ask, "Was the old drunk yelling at me?"

"No, he was yelling at me for calling him a SNAP scammer, and I have it on video."

"Good for you. Good for you." I say and walk inside. 

I apply ice and check my VO2Max. 

I feel good, but the graveyard still awaits. In the meantime, today is a good day to ride.