Down the Tourist Hill

It was a gentle slope, not a strenuous hike, but it went on for quite a bit, maybe a half-mile. It was some kind of national monument, maybe a memorial. Maybe it was a battlefield site, something from the Revolutionary or maybe Civil War. The ground and the environment was like upstate New York, the Northeast, something like that. I didn't really care.

I was at the top, and ready to head down. All by myself, the wife off doing something else, shopping I think (how cliche' is that?), and the kids off exploring on their own as well. I was in a small souvenir store, and I'd struck up a conversation with the owner, a surprisingly attractive older lady who I found to be more and more beautiful as we stood and chatted.

She was a sort of Twin Peaks Peggy Lipton, tall and blond. Erect posture, with just magnificently formed arms and legs. She was no stick, but just a tall, maybe 6'1" stunning blonde. She was captivating, smart, and as we talked I was more and more attracted.

Just a normal store owner, selling local crafts, things folks brought to her on consignment, along with the usual tourist trinkets. She won me over early when she said she refused to sell the rattlesnakes in clear resin, the stretched rubber Indian (feather, not dot) drums made in Bangladesh, the lame, cheap kiddie muskets. There were plenty of places selling that carp--her word--so there was no need for her to degrade herself of her business by offering the same. Yeah, she was losing traffic and some profit in that, but it was a decision of principle. Man, I thought she was the greatest.

And so it was time for me to walk on down to the car. I guess it was a rendezvous time or something. She asked if I'd like her to walk along with me, and I quickly agreed. She left the store with a clerk and we headed down the meandering paved path, beautiful grass and trees all around, the occasional souvenir joint along the way. It was a beautiful day, spring I believe, and I couldn't be happier than to be walking with her.

I wanted so badly to take her hand. Not a move, not a precursor of something to come, just because I liked her and found her interesting, and wanted to let her know that in a deeper way. As I mulled this, she took mine.

Now it was clear, as usual the lady taking the lead for me. That's the way I work, and it's worked out okay so far. She was soft and warm, just perfect as we walked.

Everything was just great, perfect. I was a perfectly happy guy. No thoughts of the wife or the kids (this is a dream, after all). She would ask me about my car, where it was parked, how big it was, etc. She was not being crude, but her line of inquiry was clearly geared to what two consenting adults might be able to do in such a space.

And we were well in luck, as I just happened to have a converted dually pickup that had a sort of cabin in the back. It was a camper shell, nothing pre-fab or store-bought, but instead was an all-wood cabin that I'd made myself and put into the back of the truck. It was a neat thing, an eye-catcher, and I'd done it all myself. I was pretty proud of it, and wanted to show it to her. She was interested in seeing it, and she wanted to climb inside.

Yeah, my arousal was building, but more than anything I just wanted to lay with her. She was so perfect that I just wanted to hold her, feel her warmth, be with her, make her feel good. The raw physical pull of the promise of soon-to-be sex with a beautiful and energetic woman was there, sure, but I was actually more interested in a deeper connection rather than a quickie in a rocking pickup box in a tourist parking lot.

We got to the bottom of the hill and arrived at the truck just as both my wife and kids came up. She dropped my hand smoothly and quietly, and was so cool with everyone, she was instantly friends with them as well. She was a perfect person. As the wife and kids compared adventures and purchases, she gave me a slight shrug and a wink, and unspoken, "Well, we tried." She wanted to, and so did I, but it just wouldn't work out. And that was that, no huge disappointment, no feelings of anguish or anger; it just didn't happen, that's all.

So we all piled into the truck, which now had a glass hatchback, the wooden cabin gone. I offered my blond tourist lady a ride back up to her place, and she accepted, sitting in the back with the kids. They thought she was great, and they'd only known her for five minutes.

We took the meandering road to the top, and I opened the the hatchback and pulled her out the back. She gave me the slightest touch on the chest as I did, and she whispered, "Come on back sometime." I smiled and nodded, and she was off through the manicured paths back to her shop.

I crested the hill, and there was a creek. (A creek running along the crest of a big hill? Whatever.) But not deep, and across was where we wanted to go. Why go all the way back down and around, when we could ford on the gravel bottom? I eased the truck into the creek, and as the kids and wife screamed like the idiots they were being, we sloshed right on across the creek, maybe 40 feet all together. Up and out, but not onto a street. It was more like a river walk path, narrow concrete, for pedestrians, not large trucks. I turned right, down another hill. The wife and kids were screaming about cops and walkers and all kinds of stupid crap. I eased it down, nice and slow, and we pulled out onto a suburban street with the slightest bump as we drove off the curb. No problem.

And we were only blocks from the turn to our way home. Right on Route 1.2, and off we went. It hadn't been a bad trip.

Road Race

It was a nice day, hazy clouds, and not too warm. Just a little bit of light breeze taking the heat off the perfectly smooth asphalt road as I ran at a good, steady pace in whatever 10k race I was in. No competition for me; I just wanted to have a run, get a medal, and then drink some free Gatorade. Something to do on a Saturday, just to keep things moving.

And there was this woman who was starting to get to me. Her running form caught my eye first. Now, I'm no Frank Shorter when it comes to running style, but I'm also not Frankenstein. But this woman looked as if every single stride she was taking was absolute agony. She was canted to one side, as if in permanent pain on the other. Her arms were up tight against her body, clenched, fists white with her exertion. How much energy was she expending just keeping those arms up, keeping them so tight and rigid, her hands balled up? Pain, or just the way she was? Her face was a picture of pure displeasure, an unchanging grimace of pain and exertion. She was a dark pink, her face completely flushed as she panted through gritting teeth, her jaw a taut line on both sides. She was loping along, in frayed dock tennies, not even running shoes. She looked like the Gyro Captain in The Road Warrior, minus the funky long johns and bad teeth.

And she was keeping up with me. Again, I'm now Kenyan marathoner, but when I'm in my own personal running groove, I can do a 7:30 mile for six or eight miles. Today I was at about 8 minutes per mile, no big deal. I was having fun, just out for a run, and now she was doing more than distracting me; she was pushing me. I could hear her labored, agonizing breaths behind me, and even as I consciously stepped up my pace, forcing me to put out a bit more than I'd planned or was eager to do, she was right there, maybe 20 feet behind me. She was non-rhythm in motion, but she was putting down a pretty good pace.

And we hit the turn-around, and she passed me. No words, nothing, just a flash of her stupid shoes, and she was a good 25 yards out in front of me. How in the hell did that happen?

Now, did I want to chase her down? Did I really want to make a race out of this? And is this what she was doing? She seemed to be struggling so much just with staying on her feet that she couldn't possibly be interested in a finish ranking, but there she was, in front of me. Three km to go, and she was out front. Okay, what was my strategy? First: keep up, don't let her widen the gap. Keep the distance at less than 30 yards, and then make the move in the final 500m, with the finish line in sight. She was so pathetic as she ran, surely she couldn't put out a true 300 or 400m sprint at the very end. Could she?

So now I was working hard, just keeping up. And here comes another runner past me. Didn't even hear the guy come up, and he startled me as he came by. And it's a goddamn kid. Maybe about 10, 12 years old. He just kind of lopes past me, not even breathing heavy. Goddamn kids.

And he trots up to the running bag lady, falls into pace with her, and says, "How ya doin', Mom?"

Her response is in an even, smooth voice, no sign of the stress and exertion so apparent in her face and body. "Just fine, Rick, doing just fine."

And they proceed to have a conversation, at about 7:15 minutes per mile. All about school, teachers, what was for lunch in the cafeteria, typical mom-son stuff. And I had to watch and listen as I kept up my accelerated pace, just to stay with them.

And then I felt this bump against the backs of my legs. Okay, another runner a bit too close--no problem. It wasn't a crowded course, not at all, but it happens, so it's no big deal, unless I go down. And then another bump. Whoever the idiot is, he's still behind me. And I look back to see a little blue economy car getting ready to bump me from behind again.

What the fuck? A car on the course? Who's in charge of this race anyway? And what kind of absolute moron drives a car onto what is clearly a running race course. So I slow to turn a bit, and see a lady all of 80, completely asleep inside the car. She's out cold, mouth open, slumped sideways so that she's almost sliding into the passenger seat. Hell, maybe she's dead. I take a couple of quick steps to the right, to get out of the way of the thing, and I think about running up the left side, opening the door and stopping the thing. Yeah, that would be the right thing to do, heroic and just plain common-sensical, but already the little car is outpacing me. Don't know if she's on cruise control or what's going on, but now that it's no longer bumping me, the little blue car is suring ahead just a little bit, well out of my running pace, up toward the mom and son running in front of me.

They both just glace over their shoulders, step aside and let the little car pass, with the woman still sleeping in the driver's seat. No sense of surprise or concern with Mom and Son, apparently, as they're still jabbering away about tater tots and that creepy blond moustache on Miss Yargo, the music teacher.

We round a little bend, and the stupid blue car just steers right on around it, right in the middle of the road. The driver may be asleep, but the car sure knows exactly where to go, and at just the right speed, apparently. I wonder if it was being polite when it 'asked' me to get out of the way a few minutes before.

And I notice that Mom and Son are hundreds of yards in front of me now. How the hell did they get way up there in such a short time? Have I slowed that much? Have they picked up the pace? Hell, there's no way I can catch them now, so they can have their finishing places ahead of me. Whatever.

And back to the house, walking off the heat and the sweat, the exertion of the run. Sore all over, but that wonderful weary-sore, knowing that what you've done has been good for you, that your body has done a great job and now deserves a nice rest. What a great property, one house down from the end of the road in the huge woods of elm and linden and ash. Big, big lots, divided decades ago and never sub-divided for maximum suburban profit. We were just miles from the city, but you'd never know that here. We were just a half-mile from the huge, tourist national monument-place, but the end of this street was worlds away, a fantastic quiet refuge from all of the urban and suburban crap going on so close-by.

And for whatever reason I'm headed to the back corner of the huge lot, maybe 8 acres all together, where the guest house is. Why the hell am I showering in the guest house? Don't know, but that's where I'm headed.

And now it was dark. Early morning? No, that couldn't be, having just run the race in the daylight (and where the hell had the little blue car taken the sleeping old lady by now?). So I guess it was night coming on. The overarching trees were taking away the light, and it was getting dark, fast. The guest house was completely dark, now a totally black, boxy silhouette as I approached, looming larger over me as I approached. No lights at all, which I also thought a bit strange. I didn't think anyone was in there, but didn't we keep a light on usually?

I felt a sense of dread, and I wondered if I should enter? And if I showered in there, with all of my clothes in the main house, how would I get to my clothes after I cleaned up? A nekked nighttime streak to the main house, just for funsies? Or a more dignified walk through the leaves with a towel around my middle down to my clothes? I just didn't know. I still had to decide if I were going to enter and shower there.

So I stood under the trees, amid the gently swirling leaves, the dark house towering over me.