a man running in orange county

1.

I got up, got dressed, drank some coffee, lit a cigarette.

Walked to the bus stop.

Boarded the crosstown bus.

Sat next to an old woman who smelled like Vicks VapoRub.

She was reading The New Yorker.

Talk of the Town.

Every now and then she'd giggle; but you could tell she was a little self-conscious about giggling in public because she'd quickly look out of the corner of her eye to see if anyone was watching her.

But nobody was watching her.

We were all immersed in our own thoughts and feelings.

Awaiting our arrival to our destinations, our Point B's.

I was on my way to see my therapist.

Somebody suggested I might need one, so I figured what the hell?

There are worse things to spend your money on.

I looked over at the old lady; she'd finished reading Talk of the Town and was now flipping pages.

Nothing seemed to interest her. I don't even think she was looking at the titles of the articles.

I think she was just looking for something to do until she reached her stop.

When she came to the last page, the old lady shook her head and sighed. "It's a shame. I spent a dollar seventy-five cents on this and all I read was 'The Talk of the Town.'"

"I did see you giggling a few times, Ma'am," I said. "That's gotta be worth something."

The old lady thought about that and shrugged.

"That's one way to look at it," she said.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"You have an inborn gift for positive thinking."

"It's something in the genes," I said.

"Interesting," she said.

We didn't say anything for the rest of the trip.

There really wasn't anything to say.

I've always had trouble making small talk with strangers, anyway.

I made a mental note to discuss that with my therapist as I deboarded the bus.

2.

My therapist was running late.

"I apologize," she said. "It was domestic in nature."

"No problem."

I waited.

"Well, the floor is yours," she said, impatiently.

I really didn't know where to begin.

And I didn't feel like telling her about my trouble with making small talk with strangers.

Seemed insignificant.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I really don't have much to say today."

"You don't have much to say? Or you choose not to have much to say?"

She had me.

Again.

"Can't fool you, can I?" I said. And then I felt ashamed for saying something so inane.

"It's not about not fooling me," my therapist said. "It's about not fooling yourself. I've said this repeatedly."

That was her subtle little way of hitting me upside my head.

"However, if you really don't have anything to say..." she said.

I cleared my throat. "Well, I..." I stopped.

"Yooou...?" my therapist coaxed.

"I think I might be exercising too much."

It wasn't much. But it had been something I'd been thinking about.

"How much do you exercise?"

"I run twice a day. Ten miles. That's too much, isn't it?"

"So you run twenty miles a day?"

"No, ten. Five in the morning, five at night."

"Are you training for a marathon?"

"No. Well, yes. Sort of."

"Which is it?"

"I'd like to... I just don't know if I have it in me."

"You run every day?"

"Everyday."

"Mmm..." She jotted something down on the pad in her lap.

"Is it something I should be concerned about?" I said.

"Have you mentioned this to your primary care physician?"

"No... Should I?"

"I was just curious what he had to say."

"Well, I was thinking this was more of a psychological thing rather than a... physical thing."

"I can see where you'd get that idea. I'm not disagreeing with you. I guess the question is: Are you using running as an excuse to avoid other responsibilities or activities such as relationships or engaging in other hobbies or spending time with family and friends?"

I thought about that.

"I see where you're going with this," I said. "It's a good question, too. You wouldn't be too overly upset if I didn't answer that today, would you?"

"It's not my place to be overly upset. I'm a therapist. I'm trained to be impartial."

"That's good; I appreciate that. Because I'm going to have to mull that one over a bit before I give you that very direct and thoughtful response you've come to expect from me."

My therapist winked at me playfully. "I figured as much."

3.

After I got home, I went for a run and I thought about what my therapist had said.

So I made an appointment with my primary care physician.

4.

"So you weren't very specific about your symptoms when you made this appointment," my doc said, consulting his chart. "A general feeling of blah? Can you describe blah for me?"

"Actually, I just told the lady at the appointment desk that so I could see you. I'm really here to get some advice."

You would have thought I'd questioned his oath to keep the sick from harm and injustice by the expression on his face. "You're not sick?" he said.

"No, sir."

He shrugged. "Well, it's your copay," he said, lowering himself onto his stool.

"I know it's not the best use of your time..."

He just stared at me, like, OK, buddy, cut to the chase.

"Well, I was talking to my therapist yesterday..." I waited to see if he was going to react to that but he didn't. He just kept looking at me, challenging me to keep his interest. "I told her I'm pretty fanatical about running and I asked her if she thought I might be over-exercising and one of the first things she wanted to know was, have I talked to you about it? Which I thought was a little strange..."

"Why would you talk to me about it?"

"Exactly."

"How do you feel when you're running?"

"I feel fine."

"No pain? No discomfort?"

"Just the usual aches and..." I was going to say pains but I figured that would have immediately caused him to refer me to a specialist.

"And how often do you run?"

"Twice a day. Ten miles."

"So that's what - twenty miles a day?"

Why was everyone have so much trouble doing the math on that?

"No - ten miles a day. Five in the morning, five at night."

"OK. And what did your therapist say?"

As if that mattered.

"She said it's possible I could be over-exercising if I'm using running as an excuse to avoid other responsibilities."

"That sounds good. I agree. I still don't know why she asked if you'd talked to me about it."

"I don't either."

"Your therapist sounds very insecure. Would you like me to make a referral for you? As long as you're here."

"Look, I'm not unhappy with my therapist. I just really wanted to get a second opinion."

"Well, I can understand that. Don't feel pressured to accept my referral. I mean, that's your call. I was simply extending the offer. Letting you know it's available."

"Thanks. But you're OK with me running twice a day?"

"I have no problem with it."

"As long as..."

"Really sounds like this is something for you and your therapist to hash out. She's much more tuned in to that kind of stuff."

"You think?"

"Oh sure, sure. Definitely."

5.

I needed a drink after that, so I stopped off at Duffy's Tavern and order a Mojito.

"Tough day?" The Duff said.

"They're all tough days, Duff."

The Duff laughed. "You're all roses and sunshine, ain't ya, kid?"

Then I remembered something.

"Duff, let me ask you something. You've taken a few psychology classes."

"Yeah - so I can better understand some of the jerks that come in here."

"What do you think's wrong with me?"

"What do I think?"

"Yeah - best guess."

The Duff studied me intently. In his mind he was paging through all those Into to Psych text books he'd been required to read in high school and the nine community colleges he'd attended over the years. After finding the right chapter and page number, he said, "I think you probably suffered a lot of emotional trauma in your youth."

"Really?"

The Duff shrugged. "Just off the top of my dome."

I processed that.

"You were obviously short; probably skinny as hell, lot of pimples, hardly any friends. How close am I?"

"Closer than I'm willing to admit."

The Duff pumped his fist several times. "Yes! Still got it!"

"You know I didn't kiss a girl until I was twenty-six?" I said.

"It happens."

"And I had to pay to kiss her."

"A hooker?"

"No, it was one of those booths at the county fair. You know, kiss the prettiest girl in town for fifty cents?" I thought about that for a minute. "No wonder I'm in therapy."

The Duff couldn't help but smile.

"And here I am, forty-five years old, never been in a relationship. God, I sound like a serial killer, don't I?"

The Duff patted me on the shoulder. "You're gonna be OK, buddy. You're gonna find somebody. Some guys, it just takes a little longer. You're a late bloomer."

I had to laugh.

People had been calling me a late bloomer since junior high.

I'm not sure who said it first.

My parents, my sister, or one of my teachers.

One of them.

Doesn't really matter at this point.

It was just funny hearing somebody calling me a late bloomer at forty-five.

Guess it sounds better than calling them a failure.

I thanked The Duff for listening to me, gave him a twenty for the drink and told him to keep the change.

6.

During the bus ride back to my apartment, I thought about what The Duff had said.

You know, about me suffering a lot of emotional trauma in my youth and all.

Even though I did get teased a lot for being short and skinny and having a lot of pimples, I had to admit that I teased myself more than anyone else teased me.

And, believe me that can be a whole lot worse.

7.

When I got home I changed into my running clothes and went for a run because running always makes me feel better. It also helps me to process some of my therapist's insights. Like her latest one about using running as an excuse to avoid other aspects of my life.

Now that was deep.

That one kept rolling around inside my head.

It would take more than a few runs for me to be able to sort that one out.

A few miles into the run, I felt my phone vibrating. I usually ignore it, but that time I took it out of my pocket to see who was texting me.

It was Rosalie, bored as hell in her Laguna Beach cottage.

"let's sip Ketel One 2nite like it's your birthday."

The last time Rosalie and I sipped Ketel One like it was my birthday, we ended up at some frat party sipping Everclear with strawberry Kool-Aid like it was my funeral.

"can't," I texted her back. "self-medicating with running," and I turned off my phone and put it back in my pocket.

As I looked ahead toward the horizon, I noticed some kind of glowing, ghostly-lit optical illusion right above it. It made me think of the Flying Dutchman, the legendary phantom ship condemned to sail against the wind until Judgment Day.

That's exactly how I felt.

Adrift at sea, no place to dock, no safe harbor for me.

I looked at my pace watch. That damn 8.5 minute mile was still eluding me. Hadn't been able to get it under 10 ever since I went to that running clinic at the hospital where a licensed physical therapist performed an "initial comprehensive running evaluation" using "state-of-the-art Dartfish video analysis and a force plate treadmill" on me.

"You should focus more on a forefront strike as opposed to a heel strike," the licensed physical therapist said. "And try to keep your strike under your body, aligned with your hips and torso."

So I did.

That day, however, I must not have been focusing enough or something because as I was evaluating my foot strike and whether my hips and torso were properly aligned, I noticed I'd forgotten to double-knot my laces, which were dangling dangerously. When I finally made the decision to stop and retie them, the edge of my right heel caught the lip of a pothole, I lost my balance, spun around, tumbled hard to the pavement, and landed flat on my back.

Most runners would have gotten back up, started running again.

But not me.

I just laid there. Kind of enjoyed it, too, to tell you the truth. Maybe because I knew I was just a little banged-up. Maybe because I just didn't feel like running anymore.

I thought it was interesting; even though I was lying down, I could still see that horizon, only this time there were no illusions; just some light rays shining through clouds.

Then I turned my head slightly to the left and saw my reflection in a puddle of rainwater and immediately thought of Narcissus, because one time my therapist called me "narcissistic".

That's not the face of a narcissus, I thought. That's the face of a man experiencing general malaise and fatigue who's involved in a very long-distance run against himself.

I sort of laughed.

I'll have to remember that line the next time I see my therapist, I thought.

She loves it when I challenge her insights.

I think she'll really get a kick out of it.