Running and Crying

The light was out by 10 PM and the alarm was set for 5:30 -- I was ready to go out and get 5 miles this morning before Mrs. Agricola's early morning meeting (7 AM . . . ). I was having trouble sleeping, I was tossing and turning and I couldn't get comfortable. The phone rang at 11 PM. It was my brother. He told me that my Great-Uncle, Tim, had died that evening from cardiac arrest. He had been sick for about three weeks with a baffling array of ailments that left him essentially non-compis-mentis and unable to communicate with his family and his doctors. While sad and not the desired outcome his death was probably for the best. I lay in the dark pondering the death of yet another family member when the phone rang again, it was my mother. We spoke briefly. She was crying. Mrs. Agricola and I chatted for a bit before sleep finally overtook both of us around midnight.

I didn't hear my alarm until 5:40. I rolled out of the rack and got dressed, determined to get some miles in and to dedicate them to my uncle. The time I lost forced me to start cutting back on my distance. I was picking up my pace and huffing a bit as I came up a long false flat (which I ever realized was a false flat until today), looking at my watch and considering what piece of my route to cut out when I stepped on a piece of asphalt that turned my ankle and sent my flying. I rolled in the street for bit clutching my ankle. Then moved to the strip of grass between street and sidewalk, cursing a blue streak through gritted teeth. I leaned over on my side and noticed that my head was about 6 inches from a piece of dog-poop . . . even in the midst of this there was some humor to be had.

The dog poop inspired to stand up and head for home -- this run was done. I was about 2.25 miles out, I'd been running for about 19 minutes, but could get back home in about 1.6. I walked for a bit and tried to run. No dice. I walked a bit more, a bit further then ran up a hill. The pain wasn't bad but I didn't like how I was favoring my bum tire so stopped. I came to a point about 7/10s from my house, with a cutout up the road that would shorten it a bit more and I decided to run.

I made this decision at the bottom of the hill that I sometimes mention kicks my butt a bit, and I ran it with a bum tire but a pretty good stride. I started thinking about all that had transpired since 11 PM the night prior, but mainly about my uncle and his family -- despite being in his mid-late-70s, he had a 17 year old son getting ready to graduate from high school . . . and there I was, running and crying. I could barely see, my eyes were filled with tears that started running down my cheeks and I sobbed as I strode a very familiar section of road. I was thinking about what to say about my uncle, and this is what I came up with:

He was a good doctor, a good husband, he loved his son fiercely. He was a good man.

There really is nothing more to say.