Ghosts

The Betzwood 800 days have the same theme and cadence. First 2 miles are to the left along the river — peaceful, tranquil, silent. Except today. The river was a parking lot of geese gridlocked, honking and flapping ripples into the once- still water, emitting waste into the water, polluting, flipping each other off and angry about something for no reason. Cross up the hill onto the Betzwood trail. There goes Rosary man. He’s got a woman with him today. Hmm….interesting.

The new year’s crowd has thinned to a sparse swish-swish. These folks just might make it, but it’s only December 18th, 1944 and Peiper’s tanks haven’t broken through yet. Hang tough people, the year’s a long one. We still got the deeps of the cold winter and have yet to hear the crack of the lactic wood under the weight of the Tiger tank. Hold the line.

I found my mark, ripped off my black fugly sweats and hung the leg around a pole creating a jolly roger of sorts when the wind would pick up and flap death’s demarcation line.

First one and we’re off. I’ve got the Shuffle on and Candlebox is belting out pre-grunge, ‘YEEEAAA….YEAAAA’s. Earbuds flap loose in the wind and it’s the lead singer’s hair strands. 2:27. Brilliant. Not too winded. Turn around and watch the world’s fastest minute. Go!

I do my next one whichs comes harder.

At 3 I’m blasting up to the trail and spot a man in a velour running suit with a thin, gray beard and a USA baseball cap with scrambled egg embroidered markings on the bill. He’s the ghost of Hemingway forever damned to walk the Betzwood trail as penance for kissing the shotgun.

I come to stop, HOK, LWS and look up to see his lips moving at me. For a moment they move in synch with Candlebox and he’s giving me a few ‘YEAAA….YEAAAAAAHHH’s’.

I take my earphones off: “Pardon?”

Hemingway: “Dig deeper! Your form. You need to work on your form. It’s wasteful!”

I’m staring at him incredulous.

He’s now Jack from Gallipoli. Made famous in these lines:

Jack: What are your legs?
Archy Hamilton: Springs. Steel springs.
Jack: What are they going to do?
Archy Hamilton: Hurl me down the track.
Jack: How fast can you run?
Arch Hamilton: As fast as a leopard.
Jack: How fast are you going to run?
Arch Hamilton: As fast as a leopard.
Jack: Then lets see you do it.

I don’t know what to say. My chest is heaving. I’m losing weight because it’s pulling the skin taught around the ribcage’s brittle lampshade.

He repeats: “Your form. Pump! Pump! Pump! Narrow. Bring your arms in! You’re wasting energy. You’re arms are all over the place!”

I thank him. He nods, turns around and walks away.

I hit my watch and spring. I pump pump. I watch my arms. I’m efficient. I turn around and he’s disappeared around the bend. The wet gauze feeling is in my lungs. The lampshade’s ripping. The legs scream. My arms whirl and move out — holding it all together before the statue crumbles. The efficiency fades and my last 200m is pure wild man survival.
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Non running.

My daughter’s hamster is near death. He’s got wet tail. I made the diagnosis and, after dinner, I explained to my daughter that we got to take action or else he’s going to die. Josie handled it well and for a sad, pathetic moment, we both looked at each other and silently wondered if this thing was worth the drive at 7:30 pm. The stereotypical person cries and scrambles. The stereotypical kid gets on her knees and begs God for deliverance. But we were different for a minute. We paused and felt selfishly inconvenienced that we had to do something because I had done 800s on the Betzwood and my daughter had been pigeonholed in a YMCA daycare until 5:30pm.

In the end, goodness reigned. I saw, what I believed to be a divine spark in a small, pathetic, bred-to-death creature. My daughter was simpler and just loved for the sake of loving.

We hopped in the car and sped down the road. We blew through yellow lights hauling ass. We were on the other side of McWorld this time. We ran into McPets and placed our family member into the hands of a man named ‘Mike’ wearing an amulet pouch containing crystals and a desperate pony tail grabbing at a receding hairline. Mike smiled back at us behind rotten teeth and assured us that Bobo would live. He led us into a dim-lit broom closet where the other rats and McAnimals were being nursed. Bobo’s cage was rested on top of another cage containing another dying hamster. I filled out my number and name on the back of a scratch piece of printer paper. Mike placed the paper on Bobo’s cage, turned the light off and assured us that all would be well as he fondled his crystals in the leather pouch and smiled a black smile.
—————
After saying goodbye to my running friends, I slipped off on my own to run the longer, double mountain loop. It was a perfect day for a long single; there was a slight bite to the air and the sun dominated the sky. Fast water moved down Mount Misery’s steep draws churning and mixing into one central stream where brook trout could be seen darting in and out along the riffles seeking food and watching their backs.

No one was out on the trails except for the woman. I’ve seen her once before, this past Monday, when I ran the same loop. Last time she sat over by the waterfall and peered into the water. She had a sad look about her and I wondered then and still wonder today what she was contemplating. The death of a loved one? The onset of cancer? Aging parents? A cheating lover? It was melancholy for certain; she had been drawn to think about something there and she was determined to look into the clear, cold, mixing waters for lucid answers.

One of my favorite outdoor authors, and a man that I desperately wish I could write like, Norman Maclean, wrote a wonderful passage about the power of rivers from his famous book, “A River Runs Through It.” It reminded me of her as I ran by:

“I sat there and forgot and forgot, until what remained was the river that went by and I who watched. On the river the heat mirages danced with each other and then they danced through each other and then they joined hands and danced around each other. Eventually the watcher joined the river, and there was only one of us. I believe it was the river. ”

She was there again today, but she had moved off the main trail and was near the t-intersection of the path where roads right take you up the mountain and roads left keep you hugging Mount Misery, close to its bosom–out of trouble.

I turned right, faced up the mountain and looked at her. She sat on a ancient rock wall and had the same sad face as she peered down into a smaller stream–as if her troubles of Monday’s past had run itself to the sea and new solace, new ideas, perhaps new hope lay in fresh, turbulent water pushed down from the pedestal of the high hill.

I don’t know why I find these characters–these apparent spirits–out there: the Rosary man, Hemingway, and her. All I can say is that they are everywhere. Look around; our world is full of them. Maybe old parks, long trails, combined with the conscious, alert mind on an 11 mile mountain run flush them out.

I don’t know.