Five Miles Out
Just done, there might be typos. Ignore those.
The iPod goes in, the playlist goes on, five miles is clicked, and the affirmative female voice of Nike + iPod tells me, “your workout is now started, press the center button to pause workout.” At that I walk up Holly Ave, with a speed of increased intensity, while The Killers begin to break noise in my ears. I love the warmth of the night air, and I love the peaceful silence darkness brings to me and my run. I turn the corner from Holly to Nichols, for a minute stretch of barley visible darkness, before crossing Jarratt Ave. Over the train tracks and a hundred yards or so take me to the sidewalk. Then I start to run at around a third of a mile into the route. The green and white sign of BB&T bank casts an eerie glow onto an empty street and the parking lot is empty (as is the Post Office too). Usually by the time I near the bank I can start to smell the laundry mat. Yet, here, it does not give off the smell of freshly fluffed clothes. Here, it is the smell of dirt, grim, and hot sticky air. A tiny laundry, in a smaller town, with little use. It doesn’t have the squeaky clean appeal that you get from larger ones, the super shiny ones glossed out on television, or the image generally kept in the cultural forefront. You certainly wouldn’t see a singles night at the laundry mat occur here (for the record, I have NEVER gone to one of those). None-the-less . . . by now Toby Keith is usually telling me about his “Whiskey Girl” and just how much he loves her.
Passing the old A&B Market building, with its faded, chipped, and dirty light blue paint next to vintage silver siding leaks the smell of decay onto the street. No one has been in that building for years, and the aroma I brace while passing reminds me of the town I live in and of how things are here. Hitting the train tracks and heading to the Blimpie is usually when the thoughts set in. Every runner will tell you that running will let you solve your problems, and we often joke that if all world leaders were runners then we would have world peace. The endorphins are enough to make you promise redemption and eternal salvation alone. But, this is where I have to be careful. If I let my thoughts go too far, ponder too long, and think too deeply my chest will feel like it is constricting, every ounce of me will hurt, and I’ll be a dead woman standing.
I sure don’t think about the fact that he still has the power to break my heart sometimes, even after all of this time. That I am living on the brink of financial breakdown, that the field I love so much doesn’t seem to want me, and that I don’t have health insurance but I have a damned book and PhD.
I don’t think about the fact that the best lover was a one night engagement from a long time friend, notoriously known for his horrid relationships skills. I miss his touch sometimes. But, I don’t regret it, and I know that it was nothing more than what it was. He was more than a one night stand because we’ve known each other for far too long, but beyond that we just friends passing through our courses. I don’t think about that sometimes friendships die, right before your eyes, and you have no way of knowing or fixing it.
Instead, I think about running into an old friend on a busy street and wasting the night away with entirely too many rounds of whiskey. I think about finishing my first half marathon, making a transparent pie, and the gorgeous golden color of the fields right now. I think about the tilled plots of land, on the verge of producing tobacco and cotton crops, and I think about the cool comfort an autumn day brings right before harvest.
As I swing back past Jarratt Hardware and get overwhelmed with the smell of fertilizer I think that the recent shipment of spring plants has come in. As I stride past the old antiques building with the smell of fresh paint seeping slowly out the windows I think that the new doctor’s office must be going to open soon. When I round the corner on Jarratt Ave, and roll to Allen Road toward Bat Town I always pray that a car doesn’t get me on a corner than can be described as nothing other than country crazy. Sometimes I can still smell the engines from the fire trucks, if they’ve just come back in. Mostly, not. On days right after a rain, the air smells soggy and like wet wood right there; that occurs from the timber plant bein’ a spittin’ distance down Allen. Jogging into Bat Town I know I have about three-quarters of a mile of run before the dogs will start to yowl, but I always push it to the point of howling. As I turn to head back I snicker as I listen to the chorus of poochies barking into the night. While I am terrified of unknown dogs (mauling as a child explains that nonsense), I find the chorus of protective country hounds oddly comforting. Though, sometimes they do annoy me . . . like when I’m in a zone strolling along at a 9:52 pace (45 seconds faster than my normal) and they startle me. Pfft. Usually, “You Can’t Hide Redneck” sings alongside the doggie chorus, even funnier in its own regard. The giggles push me onto mile four.
Sometimes I think about gender theory and how it settles on stereotypes and positives, while excluding the normative whole. Binary figures become fringe elements within the larger pragmatic of what defines a society and social identity. I’ll think about the exclusion of blacks from front line duty, early veteran’s groups, and that the predominant face of the soldier continually excludes the non-white and non-male actor. And now your eyes have glazed over, and I have lost you.
As I struggle through the last half mile, which always feels like twelve, I let the endorphins take me over. They keep things in their tightly closed boxes so that I can make it to the end. When “workout complete” sounds in my ears, I know that I am safe. Well, safe for now until the next time. But, I don’t think about that.
The iPod goes in, the playlist goes on, five miles is clicked, and the affirmative female voice of Nike + iPod tells me, “your workout is now started, press the center button to pause workout.” At that I walk up Holly Ave, with a speed of increased intensity, while The Killers begin to break noise in my ears. I love the warmth of the night air, and I love the peaceful silence darkness brings to me and my run. I turn the corner from Holly to Nichols, for a minute stretch of barley visible darkness, before crossing Jarratt Ave. Over the train tracks and a hundred yards or so take me to the sidewalk. Then I start to run at around a third of a mile into the route. The green and white sign of BB&T bank casts an eerie glow onto an empty street and the parking lot is empty (as is the Post Office too). Usually by the time I near the bank I can start to smell the laundry mat. Yet, here, it does not give off the smell of freshly fluffed clothes. Here, it is the smell of dirt, grim, and hot sticky air. A tiny laundry, in a smaller town, with little use. It doesn’t have the squeaky clean appeal that you get from larger ones, the super shiny ones glossed out on television, or the image generally kept in the cultural forefront. You certainly wouldn’t see a singles night at the laundry mat occur here (for the record, I have NEVER gone to one of those). None-the-less . . . by now Toby Keith is usually telling me about his “Whiskey Girl” and just how much he loves her.
Passing the old A&B Market building, with its faded, chipped, and dirty light blue paint next to vintage silver siding leaks the smell of decay onto the street. No one has been in that building for years, and the aroma I brace while passing reminds me of the town I live in and of how things are here. Hitting the train tracks and heading to the Blimpie is usually when the thoughts set in. Every runner will tell you that running will let you solve your problems, and we often joke that if all world leaders were runners then we would have world peace. The endorphins are enough to make you promise redemption and eternal salvation alone. But, this is where I have to be careful. If I let my thoughts go too far, ponder too long, and think too deeply my chest will feel like it is constricting, every ounce of me will hurt, and I’ll be a dead woman standing.
I sure don’t think about the fact that he still has the power to break my heart sometimes, even after all of this time. That I am living on the brink of financial breakdown, that the field I love so much doesn’t seem to want me, and that I don’t have health insurance but I have a damned book and PhD.
I don’t think about the fact that the best lover was a one night engagement from a long time friend, notoriously known for his horrid relationships skills. I miss his touch sometimes. But, I don’t regret it, and I know that it was nothing more than what it was. He was more than a one night stand because we’ve known each other for far too long, but beyond that we just friends passing through our courses. I don’t think about that sometimes friendships die, right before your eyes, and you have no way of knowing or fixing it.
Instead, I think about running into an old friend on a busy street and wasting the night away with entirely too many rounds of whiskey. I think about finishing my first half marathon, making a transparent pie, and the gorgeous golden color of the fields right now. I think about the tilled plots of land, on the verge of producing tobacco and cotton crops, and I think about the cool comfort an autumn day brings right before harvest.
As I swing back past Jarratt Hardware and get overwhelmed with the smell of fertilizer I think that the recent shipment of spring plants has come in. As I stride past the old antiques building with the smell of fresh paint seeping slowly out the windows I think that the new doctor’s office must be going to open soon. When I round the corner on Jarratt Ave, and roll to Allen Road toward Bat Town I always pray that a car doesn’t get me on a corner than can be described as nothing other than country crazy. Sometimes I can still smell the engines from the fire trucks, if they’ve just come back in. Mostly, not. On days right after a rain, the air smells soggy and like wet wood right there; that occurs from the timber plant bein’ a spittin’ distance down Allen. Jogging into Bat Town I know I have about three-quarters of a mile of run before the dogs will start to yowl, but I always push it to the point of howling. As I turn to head back I snicker as I listen to the chorus of poochies barking into the night. While I am terrified of unknown dogs (mauling as a child explains that nonsense), I find the chorus of protective country hounds oddly comforting. Though, sometimes they do annoy me . . . like when I’m in a zone strolling along at a 9:52 pace (45 seconds faster than my normal) and they startle me. Pfft. Usually, “You Can’t Hide Redneck” sings alongside the doggie chorus, even funnier in its own regard. The giggles push me onto mile four.
Sometimes I think about gender theory and how it settles on stereotypes and positives, while excluding the normative whole. Binary figures become fringe elements within the larger pragmatic of what defines a society and social identity. I’ll think about the exclusion of blacks from front line duty, early veteran’s groups, and that the predominant face of the soldier continually excludes the non-white and non-male actor. And now your eyes have glazed over, and I have lost you.
As I struggle through the last half mile, which always feels like twelve, I let the endorphins take me over. They keep things in their tightly closed boxes so that I can make it to the end. When “workout complete” sounds in my ears, I know that I am safe. Well, safe for now until the next time. But, I don’t think about that.
Comments
Easy to see why this is one of the top rated races...there is something very special about running with 30,000 people, watching the frat boys, and listening to the crowd. But hey, I gotta make one correction...I didn't run far ahead of you. We're both very much middle of the pack runners, and nothing wrong with that. Just wish I were doing the half with you!