River Trail

My legs felt this morning like a man's who hadn't run for seven and a half years, until yesterday when he ran 10 miles as fast as he could with a baby on his back. I thought I would feel better, otherwise I wouldn't have driven all the way to the fucking River Trail to run and walk two miles in 22:43.

A little later I carried four hard, plastic golf balls and a 7-iron to the yard of John's former house. The club felt normal in my hands and I hit four fine shots into the Crepe Myrtle. I then hit half a dozen pitch shots with a sand wedge and a real Titlest into the tree and they were fine, too. Jo chased each of those shots, which entertained a car full of women and little girls that drove by and stopped half a block away for a yard sale. Then tonight, after I returned from Pine Bluff and watched the Red Sox beat the Rays, I hit two more hard-plastic shots from John's yard and the street light into the tree. They sailed straight. Maybe my psychosis is over. I'll see tomorrow at Cypress Creek near Cabot.