a dog story

i’m getting out of the car with my pizza on a chilly monday night. our neighbor sees me.

is your wife home? can i talk to her?

this is profoundly weird. i live in phoenix. in an apartment. nobody talks to anybody. it’s a rule. we’re all transients, drifting about in life, no roots. you’re not allowed to chat or learn names or socialize. if you’re looking for that you move to the suburbs in illinois, where they have porches and live in the same place for multiple generations.

sure, i said. that’s all. did i mention i’m shy?

she’s a really nice person. a hello neighbor. the person you see now and again walking her dogs. mo has always been smitten with one of her dogs, an ancient pug who has been blind for a while. he wears jaunty sweaters and hikes with a swagger that belies his advanced years. but that’s really the only interaction we’ve ever had.

so she wants to talk? i’m totally weirded out. i ask her in while going in to the other room to get mo. you’ve got company, i whisper. now she’s totally weirded out, not knowing who or what i’m talking about.

our neighbor apologizes for barging in, and then gives the incredibly sad news: the pug is in the dog hospital and it looks like he’s not going to make it. she’s been waiting a couple of days for the bad news. and she just needs somebody to cry with.

they hug. they cry. they hug some more. they cry some more. i, who never cry nor hug, end up crying and hugging. we sympathize and tell her sad stories about our pets who have died, which is probably silly but is meant to show that we understand that it’s not just a pet. this is your child.

she says her mom is set to visit in a couple of weeks and how desperately she wishes she were here now. she has nobody.

as they cry and hug, she eventually looks around and sees that mo is an artist. she had no idea. on the wall is a painting of a smiling pug holding a ball. she loves it.

can i buy it? we both insist that she take it as a gift. mo tells her how she once took a painting and dabbed paint on the foot of our beloved cat kate, making a little footprint on the back of it shortly before she left for kitty heaven. she suggests that our neighbor could do the same with this painting. she loves the idea and smiles for the first time during the visit.

more hugs. more tears. more hugs. more tears. i give her our phone number and mo tells her to call if there’s anything we can do.

how sad. we live in a place where we’ve lost the core of our existence. we moved to strange lands following jobs that no longer exist and dreams that increasingly fade away. all that’s left is the loneliness.

we say good night. we hug our cat.

we still don’t know her name.

the pizza is cold.

i don’t care.

see you laters, running gaiters

i ran with my gaiters on today.

sort of by accident. i entered the lottery for the across the years run today (the 24-hour phoenix run), and while reading the race instructions they mentioned that gaiters were helpful because the course is crushed gravel.

so i whipped out my gaiters and headed to my little 1/3 mile course (the length of the 24-hour course.) big fun ensued.

there’s something about running in gaiters. it says “i’m serious. i may be slow as mud, but i’ve got gaiters. outta my way.”

and there’s something about running in 4 ounces of racing shoes attached to 4 ounces of gaiters. pretty ironic.

anyhow, it was 4 easy miles. i love the 1/3 mile distance and the course is all grass. it’s the infield of the sun ray park next door to us. it’s a melting-pot park that mixes softball, soccer, cricket, kites, beginning cyclists and one goofball running in gaiters. a good combination.

running in gaiters just feels right. i’m no longer just a sap out trotting in shorts and a t-shirt. i’ve got on my big boy uniform. my shoulder pads. my goalie mask. my sequined skate costume. i’m the real deal.

who knows if i’ll get into the race. who knows if i’ll change gears and switch back to the san francisco race. all i know is that for one day in february i went running in gaiters.

and loved it.

pauleen won the super bowl

pauleen is 90. i never thought i’d want to be 90 till i hung out with pauleen. she makes it work.

she was excited today. she won her super bowl pool. Twenty-five bucks. i’m fairly sure she has no idea what the super bowl is. but she knows she won twenty-five bucks. that’s enough.

pauleen reads newspapers. she read my newspaper till we decided to stop publishing where she lives. sad. she got the habit from her dad, who subscribed to both her local paper and the wichita eagle (the big city paper) when she was growing up. she laments that few people in her complex seem to get the paper anymore. so do i.

she was in the last days of her work when computers came on the scene in the ’60s. she said once she retired she never dealt with them again. she wonders if that was a mistake. i assure her she hasn’t missed much.

pauleen is only about 4 feet tall, which is a little odd at first. but her laugh resonates for about a block, making her seem 8 feet tall. she’s a delight. she reminds me that aging can be done gracefully. you just gotta keep laughing.

she’s got a pretty good life.

and twenty-five bucks …

the next global confrontation?

Kim Jung II, leader of North Korea. Has undetermined number of nuclear weapons but no recorded marathon time.

Pochero, mythical creator of the Pikermi. Has marathon credentials but is armed only with a razor-sharp wit.

The Day-Glo Orange Lightweight Racing Soup Ladle© is bound for south korea, raising global concerns. can kim jung il resist the urge to go across the border in a quest for the highly sought-after kitchenware? if he does, he won’t get it without a fight.

the Ladle is being guarded by the mythical running legend Pochero, creator of the Pikermi, who says:

“If you want the Soup Ladle, Kim Jung Il, you’re going to have to come and get it…. (I am now packing and where the heck is my passport?)”

if push comes to shove and there’s a showdown for the Ladle, i’m betting on the guy who formed Team WTF (wacky town footracers). especially if they’re racing a Pikermi distance or longer. kim’s looking a bit doughy these days.

are we headed into a crisis as a result of a nuclear conflict sparked by an orange soup ladle? WTF indeed.

—

for the uninitiated, the Pikermi is the widely accepted name of the 13.1 mile race distance once apparently known as “half marathon.” the name was coined by Pochero, beloved father of the Pikermi, who realized that the city of Pikermi was halfway between Athens and Marathon. in a clear sign of its runaway popularity, the margarine site today got its first hit from someone searching for “I Heart Pikermis.” the legend continues …

11 a.m. and the phoenix sun

in the end, one hour was enough. garrison keillor got shot by a guy packing a pistol in his palette, elvis costello sang songs that would have made me dislike elvis costello if i didn’t already worship elvis costello, and a couple of boxers contemplated eating me for lunch.

the problem with 11 a.m. is that it’s real. my lower back is killing me. my knees are grudging running companions. when i keep my heart below 120 bpm i start getting passed by rocks and trees.

but it was a lovely hour. the weather was perfect, the Sunday Runners were out, and once again running proved to be the answer to a question i don’t have. i’m sure i could have done 2 hours if i’d slept last night.

i hate 3 a.m.

garrison keillor is going to die

it just hit me today while listening to prairie home companion.

someday garrison keillor is going to die. there won’t be prairie home companion on sunday morning.

this makes me really sad. i can’t remember running on sundays without him. grinding up repeats on south mountain, sucking air while trying not to laugh out loud at guy noir. he’s my friend.

of course, someday we’ll all be gone. i guess mortality is one of those things best not thought about too much. just live each day as if it were the last. because you never know.

dang. i’m wasting time. garrison and i need to go run.