Puddles Just Waiting To Be Jumped In

Short post today. I was going to dig into rhyme a bit more but then it started raining. Granted, the connection may not be evident at first glance. But stay with me and you, too, will soon be able to follow my convoluted logic.

The Sacramento area is abysmally short of rain now already halfway through our "rainy season" that generally runs from middle-ish October to middle-ish April. In fact, some estimates show we are about 20 percent of average and that may be generous. Since December 1 we have had less than one tenth of an inch of rain when we should have had over four inches by this time on average. And where five feet of snow should have fallen already in the High Sierra, there is virtually bare dirt.

That is, until today, although so far it doesn't appear to be adding much to our total, it has generated lots of excitement among weather prognosticators. Really, it's actually more like a very light but steady drizzle and hardly enough to get any water running in the gutters at that.

But despite the fact it's no where close to a storm, yet, the rain is totally the reason my thinking shifted from "rhyme" to "run" as the subject of my post. You see, a rain like today is perfect for a run---just enough to wet things down a bit and create a few puddles to jump in but not enough to be a bother.

Therein lies the fun. Plain and simple, puddles bring out the kid in me. Going splat in the first one may wrinkle your nose up a bit. But after that, every puddle is just waiting, nay begging, to be jumped in. Who cares if shoes get wet and mud splatters up to your knees?

OK. That's it. That's my post for today. Here's to puddle jumping, in celebration of all puddles past and all those yet to come---even the piddly ones. Why, I'm even beginning to feel a short rhyme coming on, with a little syncopation to boot....

Rain
By Bill Kirk

Drip. Drip. Patter, pit.
Little drops of rain that hit
My umbrella. Under it,
I’m a perfect fit.

The Exercise Of Exercise

Time to get into the starting blocks and wait for the gun to sound. Yep, it's time to throw down the gauntlet to yourself and kick off your exercise resolutions for the new year. Come on! Who's with me? I didn't do so hot last year. But 2012 is a brand new year.

So, be it resolved. Tomorrow will soon be upon us. Let's see just how long we will last. Here's a short rhyme to get your started. It's also posted on my webpage at billkirkwrites.com under the "Rhyme Of The Month". For another take on the running life, check out "Life is (Ultra) Good" on the Blackwood Press website. Enjoy.

Then pull on those exercise duds and strap on your shoes. The day awaits.

The Exercise Of Exercise
By Bill Kirk

Exercise is easy
To write down on a chart.
The hard part is the doing;
The first step is to start.

Writing lists is helpful,
If that's not all you do.
You've got to take that first step
And after that, take two.

Three steps, then another--
Each one becomes a snap.
Soon ten leads to a hundred--
Four hundred make a lap.

Each four laps together
Will make an even mile.
You're done in twenty minutes.
Do I detect a smile?

Now you get the picture.
That's what it's all about!
You've overcome the challenge.
So, give yourself a shout!

Poem A Day Challenge for April 13

April 13--For today's prompt, write a poem that remembers an old relationship. This relationship does not have to be romantic. It could be a departed (or estranged) family member, old friend, former teacher, or even just someone you briefly encountered. And the relationship may have even been one-sided or seemingly insignificant to the other person.

They Called Him Giuseppi
By Bill Kirk

They called him Giuseppi—
An old man by almost any standards.
His deeply tanned and
Weathered face and hands,
Left no doubt he had seen
More than his share of work
In the Mediterranean sun.

And yet, he had a certain
Athleticism about him, as if
He knew his way around
A cinder track and knew even far more
About the runners who raced there.

With a quiet nonchalance,
Giuseppi knowingly watched
From his perch high among
The irregular tiers of the
Hand cut stone benches.
His eyes were on a lone runner
Gliding around the ancient oval,
As so many thousands had done
Over countless centuries before.

The runner’s smooth stride hid almost any
Imperfection in his training regimen.
But Giuseppi sensed something out of kilter.
The straight-aways were fine—
Each footstrike found its intended mark
As a bowman would send
His arrow to its distant target.

But as the runner leaned into each curve,
Giuseppi could almost feel the
Imperceptible twinge himself.
There it was—a tightness in the calf
And an ever-so-slight pull in the hamstrings
Which flattened the heel—dulled the rebound.

Yet, the runner kept up his pace,
Through the long curve, once again
Pushing into the home stretch.
How many more repeats would he do?
Giuseppi knew he would disagree with
The runner’s automatic answer—
“Oggi, faccio altri dieci.”—“Ten more today,” he said,
Because that’s just what he did on Wednesdays.

“Basta! Oggi non più. Vieni qui!” Giuseppi beckoned
With his voice and a single palm-down gesture.
Giuseppi knew instinctively an interruption today
Would pay dividends in days to come.
They walked together to a small wooden locker
Down near the edge of the track.
Releasing the latch, Giuseppi revealed
The tools of his trade inside the cabinet—
Oils, lotions and salves in dust-caked vials and tubes.

He warmed a small dollop of pungent salve
Between his leathered hands.
In silence and with a surgeon’s precision,
He pulled and pushed into the belly of the muscle.
Alternately using the edges of
Thumbs, knuckles, palms and finger tips,
He teased out the hidden pain lying
Deep inside, waiting to be exposed.
At first skeptical and wishing for its end,
The runner soon relished this
Trackside treatment, eager for more
As the stabbing pain subsided
With each smooth stroke.
Inside fifteen minutes,
The lone spectator was done.

Then, just as quickly and quietly
He was gone—as if he had never been—
And would never be seen again.
Only the memory of his image
And his handiwork remained
As an ever present reminder
Of the man they called Giuseppi….

I Ran The Roads My Daddy Ran

By Bill Kirk

It's early morning and the air is still cool
In this patch of kudzu heaven between Jackson and Yazoo City;
Not yet thick and heavy with river delta humidity
Which gets pulled into the air by the heat of the sun.
Leaving Mollie's, I strike out at a run across highway 49
And pick up Dover Road for the first two miles.

Mostly rolling hills lay before me
As I hug the edge of the asphalt—
My shoes find chance purchase in the loose gravel and sand.

Holding my steady pace, in just fifteen minutes,
I make a left onto Neely Road,
Leaving my open exposure to the morning sun behind me.
I wonder if that’s how long it took Daddy—
And his brothers and his cousins--
When they ran these roads bare-footed 75 years ago?

The road is paved at the turn
But it quickly changes to gravel mixed with powdery Mississippi clay.
Sun flashes unpredictably through the thick canopy,
Dappling the dusty road at my feet.

“Come on Woodrow, keep up,”
I can hear my Daddy call out over his shoulder to his big brother.
“Last one home slops the hogs before supper! Souuuee!”
In unison, quiet foot strikes kick up the road dust into a cloud
Like some kind of shook-up reddish talcum powder.

In wet weather the powdery dust would be Mississippi mud.
But on this day, a fine layer of red clay covers the bare feet and legs
Of a half-dozen young farm boys
Out for a good run after a long day in the fields.
Now that was entertainment!

Someone, it could have been anyone, coughs out between breaths—
“This sure beats pickin’ cotton by a long shot.”
Then it was Daddy: “Yeah, ‘cept when I slung that whip snake
At Woodrow four rows over while we was pickin!’”
That got a good laugh out of everyone, hard as it was to laugh on the run.
“Not a lot of cotton got picked that day!”

Back in the moment,
I feel the first traces of the morning heat on my face—
Sweat streams down my back.
There, before me, I can see those boys
As they must have sprinted down
What would one day be the very same road—now Kirk Road--that I find myself on.
The thought of running on a road named after my own extended family
Tugs the corners of my mouth into a smile.

At the next left the pack would leave Kirk Road.
With few trees for shade, Fletcher’s Chapel Road
Would take them home--
Past the very fields they had worked all day.

Imagining the tight group of runners ahead of me.
I pick up my pace. Can I catch them?
My high-tech running shoes seem no match
For the six sets of calloused feet ahead of me.
Those feet know the feel of every inch of these country roads.
I can say I know them, too. But not really—
Not like they do.

The old home place suddenly pops into view.
I may think I can take ‘em. Yet those farm boys have an edge.
They are clearly running for more than bragging rights.
The first one through the gate gets the first slice
Of Mammaw’s chocolate cake after supper.

Less than a quarter mile away from that sweet confection,
I know I have to make my move to catch the virtual runners before me.
It’s time to see what kind of a kick they have.

Keeping time with a silent cadence caller,
The boys stretch out their strides—
Their threadbare over-alls flapping in the breeze.
Jockeying for position on the inside, each aims to be the first
To cut the sharp left corner into the gravel driveway.

Then, in an instant, Daddy swings to the outside—
Farther to run but more room.

In my mind’s eye, I fall in behind him.
For a split second, stride for stride we make for the gate.
In a final burst, Daddy breaks away from the thundering herd,
Slicing through the front gate opening,
Just inches ahead of the pack.

On this night, like many others, to the victor go the spoils:
The first dipper of cool well water and, of course,
That slice of chocolate cake.
Oh, yeah. And the others can fight over who gets the hogs tonight.

As for me? I relish the feast before me—
Rich memories of an earlier generation of young runners,
Fleet of feet in times gone by, long before I was born.

Thanks for the run, Dad.

In An Instant, History Was Made

I, Roger Bannister
By Bill Kirk

May 6, 1954. “Will this be the day?”
Is the singular question for the 3.000 present
At the Iffley Road track today—
A question for which only I will have the anwer.

Three runners to the line:
Chris Brasher, Chris Chataway and I, Roger Bannister.

It is a day like no other has been or will be again.
In the minds of men, long anticipated expectations
Were held in check by the history of a feat often tried
But never accomplished.

With tension in the air and muscles on the brink of exploding,
The gun goes off—then heartbreak
As we are called back to the line.
“How to put the lions back in the cage,” they wonder?
Might our legs recover sufficiently for another go?
We would learn soon enough they would and they did.

Then, in an instant, the world turns on four words,
“Runners take your mark!”
Another shot and the eternity of that first quarter mile
Flashes by in just 57.5 seconds.
Hearts pounding and lungs near bursting,
I hear myself yell, “Faster”
As I run impatiently from behind.

An arm's length ahead of me,
Brasher’s cooler head prevails, controlling the race.
Were he not leading with patience,
The price I would pay in three scant minutes would be dear.
The next two quarter miles each exceed a minute—
“Not by much,” some would say.
But will "not much" be "too much" at the end of the day?

Then Chataway takes the lead in the third circuit around the track.
Stride for stride three champions drive on—
Into the last revolution.
Now is when “faster” is needed.
At last it is my turn—my time.

I surge ahead down the back stretch.
“59, 59, 59 seconds,” is my singular thought.
Can it be done? Is this the day?
Rounding the last turn, with 50 yards left,
I race toward my date with destiny.

Nothing left now but raw will,
I stare at the tape stretched across my path.
It beckons from a mere 15 feet before me.
Less than three more foot strikes to leave on the track.
In a duel with the clock: What razor-thin portion
Of a single second might I gain or lose?

Tick-tick-tick.
The snap of the tape—time frozen with the
Click, click, click of stop-watches,
And the pop, pop, pop of flashing bulbs.

Then unbearable pain and
Total collapse into waiting arms.
Gasping for breath. I strain to hear
The three long-anticipated words: “… three minutes and…”
Everything after is swallowed by the rising din.

I, Roger Bannister, have done it—
With a time of 3:59.4,
The unassailable 4-minute barrier has at last been broken—

The first sub-four mile is mine.

Life Is Good--One Step At A Time

Life Is Good
By Bill Kirk

She wakes early,
Before first light
And slowly makes her way to the kitchen
To start the coffee ritual.
Her footsteps are muffled by thick, woolen socks
Pulled on out of habit—
Even in summer.

The house is quiet
And will be for another hour,
Except for the occasional creak or pop
In floors, ceilings and walls,
Just as old bones are also sometimes wont to do.
It’s odd that those noises always seem to be
Upstairs or in the next room—
Present but never proximate,
As if the house wants the attention—
Letting you know
It should not be taken for granted.

What makes those noises anyway—
In bones and boards?
Are people like houses when they get old?
Come to think of it,
Old ships are like that, too,
What with their snaps and cracks
From movement on the water,
Even when safely sheltered.

She feels that way sometimes—
Just an old girl with ancient ribs and joints
Making noises as all the pieces and parts
Settle and resettle into place.
But not today.

Today the noises don’t matter.
She has no time for feeling old.
For this day, she has fifty miles ahead of her—
On foot; uphill and down,
Over rocky, narrow trails
Carved out through the heavy underbrush
Of ancient forests by pack mules, horses and pioneers.

Today, she will join the company
Of thousands of her comrades,
Both past and present,
Once again, experiencing a level of
Anticipation, pain and exhilaration
Shared by few.

But now in this quiet moment,
Like no other in its simplicity,
She savors the first steamy sips
Of rich, dark coffee laden with
Fresh cream and sugar—
The steady warmth radiating from her core.

Cradling a comfortable old mug in her hands,
She closes her eyes, thankful for this day.
Then, as if in prayer,
She imagines the start of her long day’s journey—
The steady cadence during twelve hours
Of her 80,000 foot strikes,
As she leaves her own transitory yet enduring
Marks on the trail—
The next first steps of the rest of her life.

It’s almost time to lace up.
Life is good.