2.42 Miles in the Morning

I leave the apartment under a flat gray sky, low clouds in the distance. The first thing I notice are the rows of cars parked the fenced, blacktop lot by the school where the children usually play and have gym class. I’m reminded of my in-service days as a teacher and the setting up we’d do before the school year began. Behind me and to my right, I hear dogs arguing in the dog park by the library, one dog, bigger and louder than the others. Then it’s the sound of a single gull, its steady call, a scream from the roof’s edge of the large, plaster white-walled middle school on Fillmore. It didn’t take long to feel strangely separate from the other other people on the city streets. Me, out for a mindless stroll while most of them have their earbuds in, and are texting or staring down at their phones, oblivious. With my singular focus on the world around me, I don’t fit in among them. I judge them all, and then judge myself for having done so. Having crossed the four lane road near Marina Green, I think of some work thing and some chores that I’ll need to do later. This isn’t the time for that. I push the thoughts aside. I pass an enormous house that’s having construction done. I remember a friend mentioned he knew someone who bought a really big house, maybe in the twenty-million dollar range and unhappy with it decided to redo the whole place. These houses sit mostly unoccupied and are far too big for any one person, couple, or family. In my head I’m grumbling about excess and I’m reminded of an interior designer I know who works for clients who think nothing of trashing a completely good interior with new, functioning appliances simply because they want a different aesthetic. Meanwhile, I’m re-using ziplock bags. Runners pass me in both directions – the younger men shirtless, the younger woman nearly shirtless – modesty not yet what age has taught them. Again, I’m judging them and also feeling old and decidedly anti-young people. I begin to question why so many of my thoughts are peppered with these petty judgments, the people staring at their phones, the excess of the millionaire class, the shirtless bros talking loudly as they run. I’m surrounded by beauty and yet I let my attention drift away from gratitude. I think maybe I need to get out of the city, away from people. Not wanting to be this way, I pull myself back into observation mode. I name things along the way. The open door of the net yet open coffee and donut kiosk. A bike locked to a pole, a helmet overturned in the grass. The sandy path with the one soft and not quite muddy spot. A black umbrella with pink and purple polka dots, upside down and broken, a metal rib pointing towards the sky. The field, recently mowed, its grass wet and clumpy. A blue, squatter’s tent by the big rocks lining a slim stretch of beach. The group of older women wrapped in towels having finished their morning swim. Two rowers in a red kayak heading towards the bridge. I sit on a bench and write a few things down in my phone. I envision a smaller quieter life and write about a small fishing village by the sea where it’s sunny and warm and the church bells ring at noon. In small groups of six and seven, runners from a run club pass by. Their disjointed conversations break the otherwise tranquil quiet. A minute or two after they pass, I get up and begin walking home. I spy three swimmers in the Bay, orange swim buoys trailing behind them. The bike helmet is gone, the umbrella is still there. I want to cross the street and walk a different way home, past the shops and restaurants receiving their deliveries for the day. Not wanting to make the lines of cars starting their morning commute wait for me to cross the four lane road, I abandon this plan and walk back the way I came. I hear the heavy footfalls behind me, the voices rising as they close the distance. Another group of runners passes by, seven, maybe eight of them. Briefly, I entertain the thought that my feeling of not-quite-disdain for them is a form of jealousy. Do I secretly wish to have friends to go running with. I decide the answer is no… I have no interest in being part of a run club, it seems kind of awful, I don’t really like being in groups, and especially not this early in the morning. I like slow, contemplative starts. The run club has gathered in the field near the traffic light. They’re waiting to cross. There’s about thirty of them. Sometimes they gather at a coffee shop on Chestnut Street. It’s impossible to weave your way through them. I watch them as they cross and decide that when I get to where they are, I’ll walk on the other side of the street. Even so, I can hear their chatter from two blocks away. They board a bus and head to who knows where. I think, I’m so glad I’m not on that bus. Back by the middle school I again think maybe I need to get out of the city. I love the variety, I love the access, I don’t always love the noise and all of these other people. By the library, I adjust my pace so that I’ll arrive at the crosswalk after the car at the stop sign has gone through the intersection, but before the next car tries to slow roll through. Back in my apartment, pour my second cup of coffee for the morning. I read a few poems, and try to make my own poem based on my morning walk. The umbrella is a nice touch, the pettiness, not so much. I check the activity tracking app on my phone. It’s a little after 8am and I’ve already taken half the steps that I took yesterday – 2.42 miles in the morning.