The Great Goat Hill
After I moved to a more rural section of Massachusetts in June of 2013, not far from Connecticut and Rhode Island, I joined a local running club. They held a Monday night trail/road run around a pond. It was shaded and made for cooler running in the summer. I really enjoyed that!
There, I met my best friend Tim.
I checked in on Facebook and hit the trail.
Breathtaking.
As a kid, I summered on small islands in the middle of Indian Lake, which is located in the Adirondack Mountains of New York State. My siblings and I played a serious game of hide and seek. One which used the entire island. The topography included granite rock cliffs and sandy beaches, as well as a small deciduous forest with a stand of mighty pine trees. Once you were spotted by the most recent loser, it was a race to homebase.
Streaking along wooded paths, bouncing from rock to rock, and making the final cliff jump to the sandy beach below, we raced to home.
I hit the pine covered section of trail like a burlap bag full of turnips from the local farm being dropped off an old pickup truck. It took a moment to account for all my appendages. Fortunately, this part of the trail was nothing like the dry and rocky gullywash I had transversed moments earlier.
The alarms began going off. Skinned knee, check; scraped elbow, check; pine needles in my shorts, check; head trauma, none.
Whew! I started to get up. CRAP! I cried out to no one just a mere three miles from civilization. This scream would have been more dramatic had there been a canyon echo. There was none. I swore on getting evermore creative in my cussing.
I was alone and steadied myself on my knees.
I probably should have prayed; however, first I needed to find my glasses, which without, I can see nothing in focus. I searched around the brightly colored leaves and brown pine needles. It was like sifting through a swimming pool-sized-vat of mustard and ketchup.
My first concern was, what if they are broken like Piggy’s were in Lord of the Flies?
What would I do then? My next thought was, what if I can’t find my way back home? Could I realy on my uncorrected vision, or would it be blind faith? I had read about the poor Italian runner who got lost in New York City after the 2015 marathon. I often ask my wife this rhetorical question such as this. “Do you know why I have a GPS, honey? Because I need one.” The good news is that I had my phone. My next thought was, I hate trail running. Eff the damn tree and roots and rocks and creepy creatures and - shoot, this sucks I sputered. And damit, there is no cayon echo. A bullfrog belched.
I fired off another string of expletives.
I continued to search for my glasses in an ever widening circle in the middle of hell itself. After what seemed like a month, I found them in perfect condition. The problem was that they were next to a snake!
Shoot, I screamed with my inner-wimp. Actually it was a stick which happend to look like a sixteen foot anaconda.
I made my way back to the car where I took some water and old Dunkin’ Donuts napkins and cleaned up my wounds. I watched the video I had shot a few times, and headed home. Son of a gun, I hurt. Trail running is stupid. Trees are stupid, gravity is useless…
I pulled in the driveway and limped up the stairs.
My phone rang. It was my good friend Tim. Hey David, I saw that you were running the Blackstone Canal trail on Facebook. You know that there is a trail race down near there. We should do it. I hung up the phone. I dislike telemarketers. A. Lot.
He called back, “Hey David”
“NO!”
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