A Steel Cut Segue

Steel Cut Oats slept like crap last night and, as a result, found himself feeling almost malleable this afternoon.  Less than steely.  So what he did - what I did - was partake of an old-fashioned jog in the park.  Running is not my forte, but every now and then, the weight-pile, the BOSU, even a brisk walk, doesn't "fire the furnace."  A jog (not a run, but a methodical churn covering a mile in eight minutes) is just what I need.

And so I began.  Not to be confused with Frank Shorter (Munich Marathon Gold), I began tentatively, effortfully, negotiating sidewalks, on my way to a gout of primeval fir. Last time, two (three?) weeks ago, I followed my breath up a wet, muddy trail, and pretended, in exertion, to be Lewis-and-Clark.  But now, Spring had sprung.  The goose-step of clipping cross-country came with tulips.  And where, once, a Bag-eyed Insomniac beat the trail, Pheidippides emerged on a bee-line to Sparta. God, I thought, it must feel good to blaze the back-stretch, crowd in your ear.... "Oats!" "Oats!" "Oats!"

Maybe.   Hayward Field, the University of Oregon's venerable track, is the first place I ever jogged.  Woefully out of shape, I made sure the sun was down, and proceeded to wheeze eight times around the oval on which Steve Prefontaine, adoring crowd yelling "Preeeeeee!", smashed records.  I could feel his Spirit, present and alive.  So, after messing-up the long-jump pit, I drove, spontaneously, to the hills, cranking Steppenwolf - "Get your motor runnin"…. - to a place I hadn't seen.  The hair-pin was flanked by rock, smattered in graffiti where he failed to make the turn (Pre was strong in the turn), and the detritus of mourners - beer and flowers - flanked stone.  A warm night, like many a night when you put the top down and go all out, congealed death, and decades later, the goose-bumps still rise, memory haunts, and I pretend…. I am him.

Twenty-five minutes - approximately three miles - later, I was back in the driveway.  I hadn't planned on documenting the experience.  However, just as it aids in exercise to now and then "shake it up," it aids, in writing, to "shatter the pattern." Something useful in going from slug- to chug-pace (sorry, I couldn't help it) seemed appropriate.

So, here I am, blogging about jogging…. I fear the day I start blogging while jogging, but until then, I'll keep moving.... Steel Cut.


Makten, S.C.O.

Next blog: Winging it....