jumpingfish

On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, our running route ran up the hill on Comal. I was running slowly during those first few miles, since I wasn’t warmed up yet, and since … well since I just run slowly on hills. So people were passing me.

Somewhere about a half mile into the route, we came to a corner. The neighborhood here still consists of small, one-story houses — the few remaining refugees from the gentrification that is sweeping the east side of town. An elderly woman came out the door of one of the houses. She held on to the metal railing with both hands as she navigated the steps.

I heard a voice behind me. “Hello Rachel!”

The woman looked up and saw the woman who was coming up behind me. The elderly woman smiled and waved, “Good morning, Elizabeth!”

“We had your Pecan Pie the other day, Rachel. It tasted great!”

“Good,” the elderly woman said, “That’s good.”

What torture. At the beginning of a long run. In the morning. As we’re trudging uphill. To be reminded of Pecan Pie. What torture.

“I’m ok,” he said, looking down at the books on the table.

All the other kids had chosen their books and were sitting on the floor reading their chosen words and looking at their chosen pictures. 

“Here,” I said. “What about Denise Fleming? Look at these colors!”

“No, I’m ok.”

“Don’t you want a book?” I asked.

“Somebody else got the one I wanted.”

“Oh I see lots of books here,” I said. “How about Eric Carle? Look at this!”

“I’m ok,” he said. And he turned to join the other kids who were now lining up at the door getting ready to return to their classroom.

He stood at the end of the line and hung his head. He was wiping his eyes.

I tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on,” I said, “I’m sure we can find something.” He walked with me back to the table.

I gathered several books and moved them around on the table, having no idea what else to do, thinking that something might still catch his attention.

“What about these?” I asked. “Hey, what about Mercer Mayer?”

“No, I’m ok,” he said.

His head was still hanging low. I moved the books around some more and grabbed a few others. And then I heard him say something.

I bent lower. “I’m sorry Michael, what did you say?”

He pointed to the table, to the Mercer Mayer.

“A fine choice,” I said. “Now let’s get a pencil so you can put your name in it!”

He wrote his name on the sticker on the inside cover, and he carried his book with him as he got in line. 

I ran behind the pack. Their red lights blinked reassuringly in the darkness as they pulled away. I’d be certain to see where they turned, even if I fell way behind.

Which I did.

They pulled way ahead. But when they came to a cross street, I could see them stop where our route turned into the neighborhood. Problem is … they kept pulling away, and before long they were gone. No pack in the distance. No shadows of runners. No blinking lights. Nothing.

Whatever.

We’d run here before, so I couldn’t get lost. And we were running timed fartleks, anyway, so the official route didn’t really matter. As it happened, I had turned right where everyone else turned left. So I was on my own.

Whatever.

I ran the fartleks: two minutes fast, two minutes slow, six times. And I started a slow warm down on a made-up route, because there wasn’t enough distance between me and my car for a 1.5 mile warm down run. So I crossed a street and decided to jog another slow loop to make up the distance. 

“Did I turn wrong somewhere?” a woman asked. She was wearing a white running jacket and had a red light somehow attached. She was standing in the shadows on the other side of the street.

“Oh, you’re really asking the wrong person!” I said, not elaborating further on my wrong turns and improvised loops.

She took out the slip of paper with the running map on it. “I don’t even know where we are.”

“Here,” I said. “We can go this way and rejoin the warm down route, or we can go back that way.” I pointed in the other direction. 

“I just want to take the shortest path,” she said.

“Well that would be back that way. Let’s go.”

One. She thought the man was a grackle on a window sill.

Two. Did you notice the waves on the right, I asked her. What waves, she said, I don’t see any waves.

Three. Did you use your non-dominant hand to draw that one, she asked me.

Oh, what a Sunday it was.