Sleeping on an airplane all the way from the pre-flight taxi to the pre-descent warning.
Coffee at lunch. Coffee at four. Coffee after dinner.
Crispy-skinned goose leg with raw potato dumplings and sage gravy.
This morning my run sucked.
Or did it?
It is crisp and clean here in the desert. Cold out of the sun. Wind that will chill you should your hair be wet.
I started down Lakeland Blvd and headed across the golf course and then under the bridge. By the time I got to the grass my legs ached. Cramps. Deadness. Sluggish muscles and viscous blood.
I told myself it was the altitude and kept going.
My right leg strained under the impact of each step. Restricted motion in my right ankle. Searing pain in my calf with each step.
Today I am just going to run through. There is no other way.
My nose aches. It is so dry here that I might welcome some congestion. But it constantly feels like something is digging into the sinuses.
Across the golf course to the other side of Hole 5. Still walking a good bit. But beginning to have to dodge the sprinklers. Maintenance men are out. Getting instructions on where to cut and where to not.
All the way around Hole 1 and headed back to Lakeland. Still walking, but the ankle has popped so the pain is diminished. Sprinklers blast water across the lawn between here and there. Cut right into the neighborhood. Looking now at a small-town hood, or wanna-be gangsta. Fourteen, maybe 15 years old. White as snow, but dressed in urban attitude. Slow. Still groggy. Not so awake.
I turn down yet another humorously named street. Hey. Satsumas. And they are ripe.
I stop and pick one and peel it with my gloves on.
The man with the poodles is confused. Living here, with this abundance of citrus fruit, breeds the strangest behavior. They grow oranges, lemons, grapefruit and more. Yet they buy juice in paper cartons and tangerines, imported, at the store.
Past the pool now and across the lawn. A momentary glance toward the diners, a couple eating breakfast on the deck. In the sun, it is warm -- and I no longer need the gloves. But they smell good. And it's time to head back.
Awesome and eerie.
Did the pain go away? Was there ever flow? Do I feel good for having run?
It couldn't have hurt. But it was not enough.
Coffee at lunch. Coffee at four. Coffee after dinner.
Crispy-skinned goose leg with raw potato dumplings and sage gravy.
This morning my run sucked.
Or did it?
It is crisp and clean here in the desert. Cold out of the sun. Wind that will chill you should your hair be wet.
I started down Lakeland Blvd and headed across the golf course and then under the bridge. By the time I got to the grass my legs ached. Cramps. Deadness. Sluggish muscles and viscous blood.
I told myself it was the altitude and kept going.
My right leg strained under the impact of each step. Restricted motion in my right ankle. Searing pain in my calf with each step.
Today I am just going to run through. There is no other way.
My nose aches. It is so dry here that I might welcome some congestion. But it constantly feels like something is digging into the sinuses.
Across the golf course to the other side of Hole 5. Still walking a good bit. But beginning to have to dodge the sprinklers. Maintenance men are out. Getting instructions on where to cut and where to not.
All the way around Hole 1 and headed back to Lakeland. Still walking, but the ankle has popped so the pain is diminished. Sprinklers blast water across the lawn between here and there. Cut right into the neighborhood. Looking now at a small-town hood, or wanna-be gangsta. Fourteen, maybe 15 years old. White as snow, but dressed in urban attitude. Slow. Still groggy. Not so awake.
I turn down yet another humorously named street. Hey. Satsumas. And they are ripe.
I stop and pick one and peel it with my gloves on.
The man with the poodles is confused. Living here, with this abundance of citrus fruit, breeds the strangest behavior. They grow oranges, lemons, grapefruit and more. Yet they buy juice in paper cartons and tangerines, imported, at the store.
Past the pool now and across the lawn. A momentary glance toward the diners, a couple eating breakfast on the deck. In the sun, it is warm -- and I no longer need the gloves. But they smell good. And it's time to head back.
Awesome and eerie.
Did the pain go away? Was there ever flow? Do I feel good for having run?
It couldn't have hurt. But it was not enough.
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