- note, poorly written on several fronts, but the one that pops out at me the most is the lack of maintaining a particular tense.
AM – not sure what to expect on a cold and windy New England morning, I decided to join a group local to the area I was staying in – the Silk City Striders. As a kid growing up here (and a runner) I was somewhat aware of this group but I never ran with them.
A small group of folks gathered in the lot. I delayed getting out my car to the last minute given the low temps and winds, and hoping to savor every minute of my DnD.
I approached the group and a tall older guy greeted me.
“I don’t know you. Are you new?”
I introduce myself as an out of towner and he gives his name as Bill. The typical runner questions start. “How many miles do you do a week?” Even those these folks are runners, I look to evade the question the same way I do with non-runners. “Oh, it varies a lot. Sometimes zero, sometimes some nutty number.” Bill won’t have it, and presses. “So what do you average?” I retreat more, “oh I am not sure, I don’t always track it” (complete lie). Bill looks at me slightly unimpressed with my answer but he still welcoming and interested. Soon he, two others and I are jogging down the road at a very relaxed pace.
We converse on the things runners talk about: What are you training for? Are you over that injury Sue? How’d that last race go? Wait, should we go right here? Wait, you are from Colorado? How’d do you like the Broncos?!
They conclude their run after five miles, and I tack on another 7.1 on an the East Greenway Trail. I think it is better called a path as it is paved than a trail, but whatever. I recall runs on this path … a million heart beats ago, 20000 miles ago, countless breaths, and probably billions of calories. I ponder if I have had that much occur, am I really the same guy or am I just the same shell but older?
The going is slow in the cold and the snow. I wonder at how a place that was the place of my life for my first 18 years feels so foreign now. I know where the roads and the paths go, but I the road names are forgotten until I see them. Oh, yeah, that is Spencer Street. Forgot that. Of course. How did I forget that? It is like a different country. Except they use the same money, drive on the same side of the street, and well, they do talk a little funny.
I wonder how it can be that I was from here, but realize how stupid that sounds. It feels so unlike what I am. I guess I have been in Colorado more cognizant years than I was in Connecticut.
Last night I went to the restaurant that I worked at as a teenager. Many places have come and go, but Ellington Pizza is still there. I wandered in, taking my time to stare at the menu at the to go counter – taking in the place more than the menu. Some things are in slightly different places, but the primary standards are still there: the oven, the prep counter, the cooler.
A young girl looks to take my order, probably put at unease in that I am scanning the place like I am casing the joint. She is naturally pretty, but she has subscribed to some magazine cartoon version of herself. It is almost clownish. He eyelashes look painfully large. She has squeezed herself into a shirt to push her breasts up that look makes it look like they are about to pop like some oversized blister. I tell her I need another minute and she goes back to styling her hair in a mirror above the bar. I desperately want to photograph all this but I realize that if I whip the camera out and start snapping shots, shit will get real weird – mostly because I am acting weird, tired from a day of travel.
The chatter behind the counter is Greek. Ah, that is familiar. I ask if Steve Loulakis is in and the girl gives me an odd look. She replies, “ah, no.” I have no idea if she knows Steve or not, so I drop the topic. I order the meatball grinder, thinking I will save it for lunch for Saturday. I got back to the hotel and consumed it quickly. The taste is wonderful and full of memory from years gone by. Good stuff.
I am glad that little Greek pizza places still exist in CT. I wish that there was such a thing in CO. But then I am glad there is not. But it was nice to visit here after not being through those doors in 25 years.
I am surprised how much conservative based talk radio is on for a blue state. Maybe it is everything on the AM band.
After the run this morning, I head over my Dad’s. We go to lunch (since I ate mine last night). We head to an old haunt in Coventry, the Bidwell Tavern. Again, I want to take a bunch of pictures, but I am sure the patrons are not so interested in that.
The Bidwell is still its incredible warm place, welcoming with its many taps, and alarge wood burning stove 3 feet from the bar. We chat for a couple of hours, conversing on family, what his next chapters will look like and the wading a bit more into the uncomfortable details adults go through when you know you are closer to the end of days than the beginning.
Also relearned in the evening that watching local news shows are hardly ever a good thing.
Debating if I go do this tradition unrace run tomorrow AM or head up to the Nipmunck trail instead. Currently leaning towards the unrace as it will get me more south towards where I eventually need to be, and it ought to push me more than a slog.
