What a beautiful morning. Feels like fall and that’s fine with me. I’m ready for cooler mornings, softer light, crackling leaves. I felt good on my run. Relaxed, not sore, happy. Didn’t see the river much because of the thick leaves.
Ran north listening to my footfalls, the birds, a dog barking down below on the trail that winds right beside the river, the clicking and clacking of ski pools, someone talking on the phone in a language other than english. Turned around at the bottom of the hill and kept running until I reached the franklin bridge. Then I put in my headphones and listened to The Wiz as I ran back.
Before I started running again, an older woman stopped me and said:
You run just like this guy that I see near 40th. Same high arm carriage and erect posture. Looks like you run about the same pace too. He’s cute.
Wow.
10 Things
Mr. Morning!
2 roller skiers climbing the franklin hill — click clack click clack
2 piles of stones stacked on the ancient boulder
a barking dog below the tunnel of trees
one runner ahead of me wearing a bright yellowish-green shirt
another runner approaching me in bright yellowish-green shorts
overheard from a biker: riding in a junior peloton…they can’t control themselves
shshsh — sandy grit under my feet
goldenrod along the side of the trail
a runner with a slow, shuffling step, carrying a CamelBak — marathon training?
The runner who passed us on the bridge summed it up well: It’s a peach of a morning. Yes, those were the words he used and no, he’s not 90 years old. I’m trying to think the last time I heard that expression, and have I ever heard it as a reference to the morning?
Cooler, great air quality — easy to run, easy to breathe. Now, sitting at my desk writing this entry, I have the windows open and I can feel the gentle breeze. The spider outside my window is chilling on their web, waving in the wind.
Scott and I continued our Saturday tradition. Next week we might have to mix it up, if they’re doing as much construction then as they are now. One side of the bridge and several sidewalks closed. Maybe we’ll do the Franklin loop? Scott signed us up for the Halloween 10K at the end of October. Our first race since spring of 2020.
10 Things
rowers on the river!
a line of kayaks and canoes, too!
certain sidewalks were treacherous: too many discarded acorn shells crunch crunch
a funeral at St. Thomas — we moved out to the road to make room on the sidewalk for mourners
would we hear the St. Thomas bells? Just missed them. 9:20
a slow biker biking up the east river road, a pick-up truck following behind, reluctant to pass. Scott jokingly asked, is that truck pacing the bike?
the lamps are still on on the river road — do they ever turn off?
avoiding the same sprinkler, watering more of the sidewalk (and passing pedestrians) than the lawn
a big crack in the sidewalk — the spot where Scott once witnessed a biker fly off their bike, then land unconscious on the path
a woman fly by on her bike, her chatty kid riding in the back alerting us to her presence
bike: 8.5 miles lake nokomis and back degrees: 71/75
Gloomy this morning, not gray but white. White skies are the worst. Gray, blue, even green skies are interesting, but white skies are flat and empty and no fun. They’re strange, but in a way that feels oppressive instead of mysterious. One good thing about this overly white light: unlike gray skies, the white doesn’t make it a lot harder to see and make sense of things.
A good bike ride. Didn’t need to pass anyone. No asshole bikers yelled at me. I’ve memorized all the cracks and curves on the path, so I knew where I was going.
The bike ride to Nokomis is only 20 minutes, but it feels longer because you bike through so many different areas — the tight, winding river road, the edge of the crowded and hectic minnehaha park, beside minnehaha parkway then near minnehaha creek, past lake hiawatha and up a big hill, over minnehaha parkway, around a stretch of lake nokomis. As I biked, I tried to remember how grateful I am to still be able to bike — to have this independence — and tried to forget all the places I had to bike through before I reached the beach.
swim: 2 loops (9 little loops) lake nokomis main beach 71 degrees
Because it’s the last week of open swim and because of sore IT bands, I’m doing more swimming and less running this week. Today’s swim was wonderful. Even though it was windy, the water wasn’t too choppy. No other swimmers or ducks or geese, one seagull, 2 or 3 kids, a boat. Every so often the arm that was that pulling through the water would touch a vine reaching up from the bottom of the lake. I had a brief flash of imagining the vine was evil and wanted to wrap itself around my wrist to drag me under. I didn’t feel freaked out by this thought, just curious.
10 Things
watching my air bubbles underwater — We calmly trailed over them/and under them, shedding/air bubbles, little white/ balloons
pinkish orangish buoys, faded from years of use, bobbing in the water — lining up my path to swim-while-barely-seeing through the small gap between them
looking at the white buoy under water — its lower end covered in greenish brownish muck, the rope tethering it to the bottom of the lake barely there in the cloudy water
one seagull standing in the sand at the edge of the water
hearing only a steady slosh as I swam, then stopping to hear the almost of the world above the water
that quiet being occasionally disrupted by a kid’s voice
buzzzz — someone’s constructing/reparing? something at painted turtle, I think. Are they building the structure they need to be able to serve beer?!
the water is shallow almost all the way to the edge of the swimming area
my yellow backpack, sitting alone, propped against the lifeguard stand
opaque water out by the white buoys, clear water near the shore
Came across this poem by Robert Frost this morning. I’d like to put it beside May Swenson’s bird deep in the woods in “October” and Emily Dickinson’s purple woods in “A lane of yellow led the eye” and darkness in “A murmur in the trees to note”:
Come In/ Robert Frost
As I came to the edge of the woods, Thrush music — hark! Now if it was dusk outside, Inside it was dark.
Too dark in the woods for a bird By sleight of wing To better its perch for the night, Though it still could sing.
The last of the light of the sun That had died in the west Still lived for one song more In a thrush’s breast.
Far in the pillared dark Thrush music went — Almost like a call to come in To the dark and lament.
But no, I was out for stars; I would not come in. I meant not even if asked; And I hadn’t been.
a few more things I forgot (added hours later)
First, I forgot to mention how I recited 2 poems in my head as I swam loops 5-7. During lap 5, I recited “I measure every grief I meet.” It was a little awkward trying to match the rhythms of Dickinson’s words with my breathing every 5 strokes. In loops 6 and 7, I recited, “The Social Life of Water.” I get hung up a little on the line, Thunder throws itself on estuary. At first I forgot it altogether, jumping straight to Waterspout laughs at joke of frog pond. Then I couldn’t remember what thunder did to the estuary. Finally I got it sorted out and made it to the end — not able even to guess what you are excluded — by the end of loop 7.
Second, on Sunday I decided I was too tired and sore to swim. Instead, Scott and I took Delia on a walk. We let her off her leash in the field at Howe School and as she ran I noticed wings all around. Monarchs? No, Scott said, dragonflies. A dozen dragonflies! I’ve never seen so many at once. Whenever I see a dragonfly, I think of my mom, who loved them. What a gift to be reminded of her so much! And how cool to see so many wings zooming about!
3.5 miles marshall loop (cleveland) 71 degrees / 71% humidity
The Saturday tradition continues. Running up the Marshall hill with Scott. Today we barely stopped. The goal for next month: adding a few more blocks at the top and turning at Fairview instead of Cleveland. We talked about Spirit Island and visiting dying grandfathers, maybe for the last time, and old lady assassins and doing a survey of how many people greet with morning vs. good morning.
10 Things
half a dozen thin white streaks on the water under the bridge left by rowing shells
a single rower
the coxswain’s bright white boat, first below the bridge, then parked at the dock (moored?)
red — a passing runner in red shoes and red shorts, no shirt
DING dong DING dong DING dong — 8:45 from the St. Thomas bells
a woman walking with 2, or was it 3?, white dogs
thump thwack falling acorns
green — all the traffic lights we encountered — no need to stop!
bike: 8.5 miles lake nokomis and back 63/70 degrees air quality: 127
A little cool this morning biking to the lake. Canadian wildfires have made the air quality index rise to the “unhealthy for sensitive groups.” Not sure if it was that or something else, but my nose started closing up mid-bike and I had to breathe mostly through my mouth.
The ride was fine. I had some difficulty making sense of what I was seeing but because I’m always cautious — biking relatively slowly (11-12 mph) and making sure I stay far to the right in my lane, it didn’t matter that I couldn’t totally see what the bikers approaching me were doing.
Some rodent — probably a squirrel but maybe something else? — darted out of the bushes as I biked by and crossed the path just in front of me. Jesus! I exclaimed. Then I stewed over why squirrels seem to have a death wish. Or, do they like messing with humans?
On my bike ride back I had to go around 3 bikers (possibly kids) who had stopped and were spread out on the bridge at the bottom of the hill. They were looking over the side at something in Lake Hiawatha. At first, I wondered why they were stopped at such a dangerous spot. Then I wondered what they were looking at down there? Was it something strange?
swim: 3 loops lake nokomis open swim 68 degrees
All the buoys were up this morning. Hooray! Bright sun, some wind. By the third loop the wind had picked up quite a bit and there were more waves then I’d like in the water. Hard to be buoyant, to breathe. Today is the last Friday swim of the season. I’m sad that it’s almost over, but I’m also tired and sore and my body — my back and right shoulder in particular — are ready for a break.
10 Things
passing over the rope that tethers the green buoy to the lake floor, looking pale and dim in the opaque water
more flashes, some might be fish, but others might be rays of light
my favorite part of the swim: the stretch between the last green buoy and the first orange buoy
a plane hovering in the sky
reciting the line, It is time now, I said, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit among the flux of happenings, and feeling a deepness and sense of quiet briefly before losing it in the effort to stay high in the wavy water
seeing the first green buoy without any problems — steady and bright
not seeing the orange buoy — just water and sky in front of me — then briefly seeing it in that same spot, then having it disappear again
instead of lining up their backpacks around the safety boat, most of today’s swimmers put their backpacks in the boat
2 kids swimming and playing near me at the end of my swim. One was obnoxious and was irritating the other
a taller tree in the tree line on the far shore loomed in my periphery. I kept thinking it was a person on a paddle board
overheard: 2 swimmers near the shore, one coaching the other coach: saying a bunch of stuff about streamlining and force and pushing through the water, then kick kick kick!Now swim to the orange buoy! coached: I can’t do it! You’re pushing me too hard! coach: Okay, swim to the white buoy instead
Did he swim to the white buoy? I’m not sure; I started swimming again before I could find it.
Started re-memorizing “Babel” by Kimberly Johnson and was reminded of the first sentence, My God, it’s loud down here, so loud the air/is rattled, as I ran. So loud! The air buzzing, my footsteps amplified. Ran north through the neighborhood, across the lake street bridge, up Marshall hill. I enjoyed passing all the cars waiting for the light to change, wondering if they wished they were me, out in the air, not stuck in a car. Lots of sun, some shade, no shadow. My left hip is a little tight — I think it’s my IT band, which is irritating but not a cause for alarm.
My God, it’s loud: 10 Gorge Things
the electric hiss of cicadas
my footsteps on the asphalt — not a soft strike or a hard thud but something in-between, something loud, almost echoing
deeper breaths
a black-capped chickadee — fee bee fee bee, a blue jay trying to answer back screech screech
water rushing or gushing or just falling at shadow falls
dong dong dong dong dong dong dong dong dong (the bells at St. Thomas)
crunch thwak — an acorn popping then flying out from under a car’s wheel
walk walk walk walk — the crosswalk sign at summit and cretin letting me know that I could walk
we’re almost to the bike trail! — a woman biker to the passenger in her bike trailer
He’s the Wiz and he lives in Oz — the refrain from the first song I listened to when my put my headphones in on the bridge
Since I mentioned my IT band, it’s time for another round of fun with injury terms:
I T stands for iliotibial band, but why couldn’t it stand for…
ink tents
impish tattlers
iffy tables
incomplete tarantulas
illuminated truths
ill turtles
Icarus trend
implied tantrum
itemized tally
Italian treat
implacable tree
idiotic toadstool
3 loops lake nokomis open swim 79 degrees
A somewhat chaotic swim. Choppy water with swells. On the way to the little beach, it felt like the water was both pulling me down and washing over me, making it hard to stroke and to breathe. On the way back to the big beach, the swells were bigger — more punching walls of water — and with the sun, it was almost impossible to see any of my landmarks. Also, several kayaks and one swan boat got pretty close to me. And the first green buoy was placed so far to the right that it wasn’t until the third loop that I figured out the right trajectory for swimming past it without needing to correct my course. Even with all that, I enjoyed the swim. It’s always great to be out in the middle of the lake!
My God, it’s loud: 9 lake things
a woman near the lifeguard stand where swimmers leave their bags, talking VERY loudly about her kid and what they were doing at the playground
3 loops and an hour later, that same women still talking VERY loudly near the lifeguard stand
a flock of seagulls, calling out as they flew above the water
a flock of teenage boys, yelling as they played some game at the edge of the swimming area that involved touching something gross at the bottom of the lake
kids playing in the water near the little beach
water sloshing over my head as a wave hit me
water spraying as my hand entered the water and I hit the wave
the lifeguard to the flock of boys: please do not play on the rope!
a general din on the beach from people talking, eating, playing music, laughing
Continued the Saturday tradition of running the Marshall loop with Scott. This morning we ran up the hill between the river road and cretin without stopping. We talked about hospice and last stages of life and Project Runway and band board meetings. Hospice is amazing, by the way. Passed other runners and walkers, tried unsuccessfully to avoid acorns and mud from yesterday’s storm. We weren’t home when it hit, but according to FWA (and many other people on facebook) we got hail the size of quarters. No major damage, but tons of leaves strewn all over the deck, the sidewalk, the road.
10 Things
so many acorns on the sidewalk and the trail! some crushed, some whole — dangerous. Already I’ve rolled a few times on them
a weird whiny bird near shadow falls. Scott wondered if it was a grouse. It might be. I looked it up and listened and the Ontario, 1963 call sounds similar to what we heard today
bright sun, broad daylight, yet the street lamps on the trail are on and so is the lamp on the bridge steps that neither of us have ever noticed before
avoiding sprinklers on Summit
the warning beep from the crosswalk sign in sync with the beat of a song coming out of a car’s radio
on marshall between cretin and cleveland: more shade than sun
the unpleasant whiff of the sewer as we passed near shadow falls
a shell with a single rower in it — watching the oars gently enter the water and leave a trail
getting dripped on once when the wind shook the tree we were running under
crossing the bridge, looking down at the river, seeing a part of the old meeker locks and dam poking through the water
Another late morning run, just before 11. Warm, bright sun. I felt good during my run, not great, but good, especially considering this is my 4th day in a row running. Listened to Taylor Swift’s Lover as I ran south on edmund boulevard and raced a runner on the trail — I’m not sure they knew we were racing, and we weren’t really, it just seemed like it sometimes. When I reached the winchell trail, I took out my headphones and listened to my breathing, my feet striking the debris on the trail — pebbles, acorn shells, mushy mulch, and a few scattered voices from above.
10 Things
the trickle of water out of the sewer pipe at 42nd
a kid calling out above the oak savanna
more trickling near the ravine
thump thump thump — acorns dropping on the pavement
a darting squirrel who noticed me approaching and quickly retreated into the trees
the tree that fell in the ravine in may or june, still there draped across the path
a man peering over the fence on the winchell trail — was he studying the sewer pipe and the water dripping out of it?
a biker speeding down the hill above the tunnel of trees — did he just call out, wheeeee!!
someone in the driveway at the house that posts poems on their front windows
my shadow — I remember that she was dark and sharp, but was she ahead of me or off to the side?
The eye sees only three colors—cardinal in the garden, green bough, blue sky. This morning, a wreck of brightness, not light, but the memory of light. Not red but the memory of flying. Here, a tenderness too bright to look on. White breeze of a blanket settling on a chair. A sequined purse turned disco and shattering the room’s blue air. Someone is moving her lips as someone else speaks opposite. Someone is sleeping in a pickle of light. Above me, outside, the cardinal, walking along the gutter, stops high above my shoulder like a fact that can’t be held. Here, the body undoes itself. The lung, its flutter. The sacrum’s sacred shield. Every red cell. The clouds come and go as themselves. Who says when the body is better? Why should I believe them? Why, this morning, is the eye lidded down, salt-smudged, confusion, watercolor and linen? Can I not be the day’s exception? Do I close my eyes or open them?
I like how she uses color here. Doxorubicin is used in chemo for treating cancers like breast cancer.
swim: 3 loops lake nokomis main swim 78 degrees
A beautiful evening for a swim! I felt fast and strong and buoyant today. No buoy tethered to my torso leaking air and weighing me down. As usual, I saw most of the orange and green buoys (and barely) only just before I reached them. The buoy I could see the best was the first orange one as I swam from the green buoy towards it. Ran into one person — I think it was their fault, but it could have been mine. I don’t remember seeing any minnows or silver flashes or ducks or seagulls or planes. Saw one very menacing sailboat, 2 swans, and a canoe. I mostly breathed every 5 strokes. My nose plug only needed to be adjusted once. My goggle didn’t leak. Hooray!
The water was opaque — light brown? — and not too cold. Not too many swells, no waves washing over me as I tried to breathe.
Remember hearing the sloshing and slapping of water from other swimmers’ hands entering the water when I stopped mid-lake to adjust my nose plug.
Colors: dark green trees, light green buoys and swim caps, pink and yellow safety buoys, orange buoys, red kayaks, white swans, white sails, a white boat’s bottom, a silver roof top, blue sky, brown water, black wetsuits
No reciting poems or interesting thoughts or moments of wonder. Just non-stop effort and a chance to lose track of time.
Warm, but low humidity. Ran later, at 11:30. Some shade, mostly sun. Ran south on the dirt trail between edmund and the river road. Yesterday it was mostly wet and muddy, today dry and dusty. Crossed over to the river road trail, then down to Winchell just before 44th. I don’t remember much about the river except that it was white and very bright. The trees were green and thick. No leaning trunks today. Also no sleeping bodies passed out on the path.
Listened to more acorns dropping — clink clunk thump — and kids yelling as they biked or played at the playground for most of the run. After ascending the 38th street steps, I put in Taylor Swift’s 1989 and she welcomed me to New York.
10 Things
right before starting to run: a dark brown, almost black, squirrel sitting up on its hind legs — did it have an acorn? I couldn’t tell
pale, dusty dirt on the boulevard path
the squeaky groan of the bed of a big truck tilting down to drop off some type of giant machine on the road
passing by a walker on the narrow winchell trail — right behind you! — as water dripped dripped dripped out of the sewer pipe below
running on the tips of my toes as I traveled up the short, very steep grade near folwell
3 or 4 small stones stacked on the ancient boulder by the sprawling oak tree
passing by the old stone steps that lead to the river, the flash of an idea: why not take these steps down to the river? another flash: bugs, heat, no time to stop. So I didn’t
another groups of kids in yellow vests biking on the trail, the leader/adult calling out, stay on your side of the lane!
doing quick steps to avoid the tree roots just barely sticking out of the dirt on the trail at the top of edmund
listening to the line in Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood”: Did you have to do this? I was thinking that you could be trusted Did you have to ruin what was shiny? Now it’s all rusted and thinking about shiny vs. rusted, and rust in the fall, then I noticed some rust on one of the big metal tubes all around the neighborhood that the city is using for their sewer work — Scott says these tubes get placed vertically in the ground and the workers stand in them as they do their work
I couldn’t tell one song from another, which bird said what or to whom or for what reason. The oak tree seemed to be writing something using very few words.
I couldn’t decide which door to open—they looked the same, or what would happen when I did reach out and turn a knob. I thought I was safe, standing there, but my death remembered
its date: only so many summer nights still stood before me, full moon, waning moon, October mornings: what to make of them? which door?
I couldn’t tell which stars were which or how far away any one of them was, or which were still burning or not—their light moving through space like a long late train,
and I’ve lived on this earth so long, 50 winters, 50 springs and summers, and all this time stars have stood in the sky—in daylight when I couldn’t see them, and
at night, when most nights I didn’t look.
This idea that stars are there all the time, even in the day when we can’t see them, seems to be (at least in my limited experience) a favorite of poets. Also: the moon!, the fact that stars are dead by the time we see them, so we’re looking at ghosts, and the realization that ponies are not baby horses (I encountered this revelation, sometimes with the annoying phrase, I was today years old when I realized that ponies aren’t baby horses, from poetry people). All of these, sources of wonder and delight. I suppose they are for me, well maybe not the horses/ponies thing.
Currently I’m reading Andrew Leland’s The Country of the Blind and it’s amazing. His descriptions of becoming blind, or being in this state of living while losing sight, not living with lost sight, resonate a lot for me, especially the idea of doubting your own vision loss and his experiences with eye doctors:
(note: I didn’t have time to transcribe this page, but I will come back to do it and put in alt text for others who already can’t see the image, and for me who will soon not be able to.
swim: 3 swell loops lake nokomis open swim 82 degrees
So many swells in the water today. For most of it, I felt like I was being pulled down into the water. Not very buoyant. I wondered if I would able to do 3 loops. But as I got deeper into the swim, I felt stronger and more able to keep going.
10 Things
little minnows near the shore — hello friends!
being rocked — not roughly or gently but in a way that made it difficult to push through the water
getting stuck behind a woman swimming backstroke and getting way off course — is she swimming backstroke? is that the green buoy, way over there?
racing a wetsuit on the back end of the first loop. Did he realize we were racing, or was it just me? I won
the far orange buoy was much closer to the little beach than it has been all season
spotted one swan, no sail boat or wandering canoes
sighting other swimmers by the bubbles their feet made under the water
the orange buoys looked like they had white patches as I got closer to them — the sun was shining extra bright on them, I guess
no birds or planes that I remember but one zooming dragonfly
felt like I was on a people mover for the last stretch between the last green buoy and first orange one — swimming so fast, pushed along by the swells behind me
Recited Mary Oliver’s “Swimming, One Day in August” in my head as I swam the last loop and realized something. She writes:
Something had pestered me so much that I felt like my heart would break. I mean, the mechanical part.
The mechanical part? I realized that her heart breaking is a good thing here and that her mechanical heart is the one that follows the beat of organized, tightly contained time, broken down into hours and minutes and seconds so we can be as efficient and productive as possible. Yes! Swimming in the lake can break me open and out of time’s rigid boxes.
The temperature isn’t that high, but the humidity and dew point are. Now, having finished my run, sitting on my deck, I’m dripping sweat while the trees drip rain from yesterday’s showers. Reminds me of a poem I just memorized, “The Social Life of Water” — All water is a part of other water and All water understands and Puddle has a long conversation with lake about fjord. A line to add? Sweat sings a duet with tree while deck listens.
oh no! Still sitting under the tree, the wind suddenly picked up and it began to rain drips all over my keyboard.
A good run. My left hip felt a little sore or tight. Listened to dropping acorns for most of the run, then put in a playlist for the last mile.
10 Things
Mr. Morning! called out good morning! from across the road — he was on the river road trail, I was running on Edmund. Good morning! I called back
the bright headlights of a truck parked on the wrong side of the street
most of the dirt path was wet, a few parts were muddy, but one stretch was loose, dry sand — how had it avoided the rain? was it sheltered by a big tree?
the river was white through the trees. It waved to me in the wind
the coxswains’ voices — first, a deep one, then a higher-pitched one — drifted up from the river. I tried to find the boats, but I couldn’t — less about my bad vision, more about all the green blocking my view
brushing my elbow against some leaves on the side of the trail — wet, cold, refreshing
a chattering of sparrow lifted from a lawn as I ran by
another regular — the woman with shoulder-length hair who walks and always wears a short sporty skirt with sandals. This might be the first time I’ve seen her this summer
a minneapolis parks riding lawnmower hauling ass on the bike path — wow, those vehicles can go fast!
almost forgot — acorns! thumping the ground every few seconds, littering the trail, some intact others already ravaged by squirrels, crunching under car wheels
The early signs of late summer / coming fall are here: dropping acorns and the dull din of non-stop cricket chirps.
