38th Street Loop/HIndman Park

My legs were dead this morning, deader than Dennis Hopper. I jogged and walked the 38th Street Loop in 22:55, with splits of 10:32 and 12:23.

It's not everyday that a total stranger says, "Here, man. You gotta big-ass spider on you," and then swats across your chest. I was standing at the top of a thickly wooded, weed-strewn and very steep muddy embankment, at least 50 feet above the creek that runs between Nos. 15 and 16 at Hindman Park, holding the man's fence as he grilled in his backyard. I had climbed out of what to him must have long appeared oblivion; dark, dank, soggy stench. "No, man. Shit. You a long way from Hindman." I was a mile away, but Julius didn't know the shortest route through Meadowcliff and, at his suggestion, I would never have asked, drove me all the way over to 65th Street, then wound back along the creek to the small park by the entrance to the golf course where I'd parked to scout next Saturday's Great Cross Country Race. I was out for about an hour and a half and covered maybe four miles through all sorts of shit. I'm going to drink beer today, and fry some chicken gizzards, in lard. I might cook a pizza later. Fuck it. The Reds lead the Cardinals by one game. They start a three-game series in about two hours (it's 2 p.m. Central).