My dad died two weeks ago. He fell in an accident Monday afternoon, and died in the hospital early the next morning. In the intervening hours, I booked a one-way ticket to San Diego and stuffed a bag full of clothes. Most of what I packed was thoughtlessly tossed in; the only things I took care with was a suit of clothes appropriate for a funeral and plenty of running shorts and socks.
I thought running would be a respite, a way to shake off the grief for a short while. The hilly canyons of San Diego's suburbs smell of eucalyptus and scrubby chaparral. Last week, the air was as dry as one could imagine, skin-itching, nose-stinging dry air. Breathe in, breathe out dry fragrant air and try not to think, just concentrate on footsteps, vistas, pace. That is useless advice. The air caught between my throat and lungs, and I felt the full misery unyielding, exhausting grief.
A flat dirt trail encircles the housing development where my parents live, but you have to choose between two extreme downhill routes to reach that trail: one is a long hill, a paved road with sidewalk; the other is straight down, gravelly and treacherous but very short. Coming back up either hill after a run offers two different experiences. The long hill is an endurance effort - you grind away it and it grinds away at you; it feels insufferably long but you look up occasionally and see that you've gained elevation and you're making progress toward the top, toward home. The short hill offers little and demands a lot. Descending it is dangerous, even in mincing steps and grasping the timber fence posts. Ascending it is futile. There is no maintaining a run, there is barely a possibility of hiking the path. Scaling it with the aid of hands and feet is required, it's exhausting and when you get to the top... you are exactly where you would be if you had taken the more methodical, long-term approach. And you have no energy or capacity left to appreciate how far you've come.
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