Running Away From Home

I went for a run yesterday afternoon. It was my first time out since my toe was t-boned by a runaway shelf the other day. I’m thankful that my metatarsals suffered only topical damage, in the form of an indigo colored toenail.

Nothing is less romantic sounding than a broken toe. Think about it, if you break your foot, you’re probably a stuntman; while breaking your ankle elicits pained expressions on a three fingers of bourbon level. Broken ribs provoke theological puns about Eve getting greedy, which is snarky without being demeaning. A broken arm somehow makes us seem athletic. A broken knee cap will have your friends thinking there was some nostra to your cosa.

A broken toe is a punchline. Without the punch. Seriously, if you tell someone you broke your clavicle, they offer to make you dinner for a month. Tell them you broke your toe? You’ve gifted them a running joke that will follow you to your grave.

This was one of the many things I thought about during a particularly brisk run whose Murgatroyd was heavenly. A good run is like watering the soul with Tibetan tap water. Somewhere inside the clipped breathing and rhythmic pounding there exists this wonderfully peaceful dimension in which sight and sound possess a flavor.

And so it happened while I was taking a bite of this glorious run, that mortality became a passing thought. Ditching the tunes invites loose thoughts. As a fifty two year old man who carries an aspirin and his drivers license on these jaunts, thoughts of death are not the preferred in flight movie. Death’s name in this instance, was Jimbo.

I know right?

Jimbo was friends with my pal Big Papi. They began falling out of each other’s loops over the last year and change. This change in temperature came about as Jim got dumber about his health and Big Papi, whose real name is Duane, got sick and tired of lecturing him on it. The last straw came when Jim celebrated a successful heart procedure by going to an all you can eat buffet.

The men both suffered from myriad health problems. But whereas Duane’s are the result of a stroke he suffered as a young man that paralyzed the left side of his body, Jim’s problems were self inflicted.

Truth is, I never liked Jim. He was a caveman whose personality was vanilla ice cream.ย Jim wore NBA jerseys in public, which I happen to think should be illegal for fat white guys. He drank soda because he didn’t like the taste of alcohol, which was not a sin in and of itself. But judging us for doing so? Was. And the whole Jimbo thing . . I mean, unless you own a bait shop, gun shop or porn shop, there is no fucking way you should allow theย bo to caboose your proper name.

Clearly, I’m shitty when it comes to eulogies.ย Or maybe I’m just no good at dressing things up. But I don’t like that Big Papi had to pretend away the pain since there was nowhere for him to put it now. He’s fifty six years old and he’s going to be borrowing time sooner than later as a result of all the curve balls his body keeps throwing at him.

I attempt to change the subject in my head by assembling a poem on the fly. The cold air is a weep of bricks and the sky feels like a Caravaggio and my run deteriorates from bounding to sodden. The thoughts sometimes, they play for keeps. And death, its real name is time. I’d rather think of nothing at all, but its too late. Barbarians at the gate, the nasty little fuckers. So I push harder now, if only to hurt somewhere else, and it makes me feel as if I have something to lose. I find my rhythm inside the purpose of those twenty minutes.

I’m running away from home.

 

133 thoughts on “Running Away From Home

  1. Dear Marco,

    It’s funny how one toe can become your whole existence when it hurts. I think I’d like for you to deliver my eulogy. ๐Ÿ˜‰ You do have a way with words, my friend.
    A few years back I had my own broken toe fiasco…the only bone I’ve ever broken in my whole life. Never got to experience the celebrity of a cast that everyone could sign. How rude is that? Just in case you’d like to read my tragic story, here’s the link. https://rochellewisoff.com/2014/06/29/toemageddon/
    Glad you’re able to run.

    Shalom,

    Rochelle

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Dear B,

    I hear ya the toe thing. There is no way to romance a broke toe. It always comes down to some form of klutz-dom (be it true or not, matters less because peeps are gonna bring it down to the Laurel and Hardy level).

    I was thinking how much I envy you your joy at running. That “runner’s high” they talk about that I’ve never been able to achieve.

    I’m thinking you did this eulogy justice. These things are rarely done with full disclosure. We choose to cover up the shit with flowers to hide the smell. And while, of course, at these times we want to focus on the lovely bits, it’s hard to pay homage to someone who doesn’t respect their body, basically giving the finger to the doctors who gave him the gift of extended life. I understand Big Papi’s frustration and desire to wash his hands of Jimbo.

    If you’re running from home, where are you running to?

    Lotsa love,
    Q

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Didnโ€™t realize youโ€™re a runner, something we have in common and a broken toe like a rib is a test in patience since you can do nothing but tap the other 9 while it slowly heals. I remember wearing Wellies in July because they were wide and that shoe, that ugly hoof they expect you to wear, just wouldnโ€™t do. We have our sartorial pride after all. Hope it heals soon. ๐Ÿ‘Œ

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I went for a run Sunday morning — first one in about six weeks, after getting sick in Europe with a cough that lingers to this day, and then re-tearing a groin muscle just standing up from a chair on my last day in Europe. It felt absolutely great. Almost 3 1/2 miles that were just fantastic — not because I set any speed records, but because I was running again.

    And then Monday morning arrived, I got out of bed and my thighs act like I ran a marathon. Twice. And this morning arrived and they act like a ran a marathon. Thrice. Sigh. This 54-year-old man is tired of getting old.

    As for Jimbo, some people don’t deserve nice eulogies. (I kind of have an issue about the life and health choices of some people who are significant parts of my life, so I totally get your frustration with Jimbo … JIMBO!!!!!) Honesty is always the best policy. And yes, no grown man should end his name with bo.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Just being out feels great, doesn’t it? I allotted myself twenty minutes to see how I felt. The toe(s) were still sore and I still had to remind myself not to compensate for it so much when I plant, lest I mess with my hammy again.

      Groin muscle tear! Ouch! I remember doing that to myself whilst cross country skiing years ago. Terrible!

      Oh see . . that’s why I did baby steps, LOL. I’ve been fortunate to evade the resultant soreness. Over the last two months, I run at least twice a week, which ain’t my usual but it keeps my muscles honest.

      I know man. Life is uncertain enough without double whoppering yourself into issues. There are things that I absolutely would love to do. Like . . eat fast food all the time and smoke cigars. But I stay away because I ain’t getting any younger and I don’t want the bill that my body is going to present me for doing so.

      No way! If my name was Jim, I would insist on being called James . . .

      Like

  5. Dude. Youโ€™ve done an awesome job here. Iโ€™m loving your last line. Eulogies are wedding vows in reverse. Maaaaaan. Thatโ€™s good. And you would definitely be the one to give eulogies. Youโ€™re like President Kirkmanโ€™s speechwriter… youโ€™re that good.

    As for The toe. Itโ€™s hard on the toe … unless youโ€™re a guy wearing a basketball jersey in public then everyone will be like … yeah toe injury…definitely fits.

    On the up side Iโ€™m glad you went out for a run, and sometimes you silence the tunes to listen to your thoughts, you got some pretty awesome ones up there. That kind of vibe can last for hours. Plus you carry aspirin with you ๐Ÿ™‚ thatโ€™s a bonus. Sending you Sunshine and waves buddy ๐Ÿ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

    • Cali,

      You always bring the sugar, thank you. And umm . . . funny story. That line was supposed to be removed from the post, LOL. I took it out as my ‘eulogy’ went south since I wasn’t crazy about Jim. I forgot to check the very bottom of the post. It’s not the first time that has happened!

      Ugh! That basketball jersey thing. Unless you’re an NBA player or a chica (my rules), you shouldn’t be able to wear basketball jerseys in public.

      Yep, sans music has been great. Finding my Zen moments in the silence. ๐Ÿ™‚

      Sunshine? What’s that?

      Peace and waves Cali

      Liked by 1 person

  6. Gah…sorry to chime in days after the fact. Nothing worse than a bum wheel, especially if said wheel is expected to carry half a body quickly. Or even efficiently. Arnica, my friend. Arnica. Would never have lived through softball season without it. And any grown man who adds “bo” to the end of his name…well that’s all kinds of wrong. Head shaking. I mean, jeez WTH??

    Liked by 1 person

    • You can chime in whenever you feel like it, Monika.

      I was very fortunate in that it was simply badly bruised. I was back running this week. Ran today in the snow and it felt really good. The index and middle toe are coming along and should be back to their normal selves before too much longer.

      You never realize how much you need the little buggers until they’re out of commission.

      No ‘bo. No how.

      Liked by 1 person

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