I detest cold and low iron lid sky. I get subterranean, funky-dunk, thinking night thoughts during the day. What Hemingway called the “black dog.” So how do I cope this eternal winter?
I drink beer and coffee and study the birds outside my window:
Doves, a few finches. A blue jay swoops in and kicks ass.
Also I run.
I have a wicked-ass treadmill, the serious type, the type fitness centers purchase. Do you realize the difference? A home treadmill gets a workout once a day, at most twice, right? In theory. If the family even uses it for something besides hanging wet clothes.
A fitness center treadmill?
It could conceivably run all day, one person after another, and with numerous beginners, people who will stomp and mis-manage the monitors and run in the way of a Tin Man stumbling off a rooftop. Stumbling all over while gripping a cell phone–inclines, speed, caterwomps of thunk. These treadmills are built for stupid. For soccer mom and barefoot teenager. Like a tank, but one of those really fast tanks our tax dollars go to; and for a person who has never trained to operate a tank. Big ass rotors. NASA polymer belts. The shit.
A fitness treadmill can do 5 minute miles.
Can make chickadees laugh.
Can shred spoons into shivs.
I have that treadmill in my home. A dream realized, truly.
I had decent flow yesterday. Did some fartlek, 7 miles, with a 5:49, 5:45 miles thrown in. A good mental workout for Boston.
And then my dog starts shaking its head, running in crazy circles.
Wilco Tango Foxtrot??
I stop the treadmill. I do empathy on my dog.
She ate a fishhook. A fishhook was stuck into her bottom lip. The hook had a barb. That’s my fault, really. My Man Room sometimes has fishing and hunting and running gear strewn about, bullet casings, citric acid, Chillums, scope rings, Rapala Shad Raps, alen wrenches, carb gels, bobblehead Buddha dolls, hearing muffs, cocaine spoons, wicky-socks, decoy paints, ball peen hammers, Amberbocks, Kwikee quivers, Henna tattoos, disc golf discs, primer adapters, planer boards, snow shovels, racing laces, broad heads, cough syrup, Oberon kegs, gun oils, meta nocks, marathon metals, orthotics, various knives and axes, various arrows, airplane bottles, glacier glasses, self esteem capsules, dregs of marijuana, gut hooks, Dutch ovens, trekking poles, cold fried venison loins, inflatable toast, a very red bra, etc.
So it was my bad. But please…
Damn. Sometimes I feel the vet is a scam. They put my dog UNDER for a fucking fishhook? Well, at least she awoke. I guess that’s what you’re paying for.
Oh, and they kept my fishhook. Thanks, doc.
I am reading.
Uh, it kicks ass.
Some things make you miss life already. Here’s one.