earthmann

On the first Midnight Mile.

The street is lit sporadically. The occasional lamp post contends with the broad leaf jungle trees that canvas the street. A cool depression wind blows from the Northeast. Grumbling beneath their breath, mountains of clouds flicker on and off, flashing like a pool of cameras, flashing me back to the newspaper men that used to follow me around town after The Monkey Incident, barking my name.

The Bangkok street dogs: They have names, but not homes. They are not fed, yet they eat. They bolt awake in mangy packs. Confused perhaps by the sight of the hairy lank of bone white man running down their narrow chunk of road in the still of the night. Confused perhaps, but angry for sure.



They come charging awake, guns barking, making towards me until I bark back, louder, meaner. They back down but barely, and I worry. Maybe these dogs would see me running and think I was running from them, weak, scared. I keep my eye peeled for a stick.

Not scared, just scarred. Long ago, when they used to sell fresh peaches by on the side of the road, a mad Texas dog's jaw gave my leg a go. Now I've ugly little scars, four of them, like cigarette burns, raised and rosy. Ugly little things, those scars. I need want anymore.

I pull a thumb-thick switch of a rotten branch that lay street side in a pile of garbage. It was slick to the touch, and I almost imagined what could have made it so, but instead push this out of my mind. It couldn't be pretty. Body fluids rarely are.

Up ahead, beneath the spot of a lonely street light, a dog pissed on an old tire. His eyes already locked my way, and when he has all four legs back on the ground he takes the middle of the street and takes to barking mean.

The streets here are as narrow as a back alley. Even though I steer clear of the dog, not more than a couple of feet separate us as I swing past, both of us barking ferociously, he barely flinches when I swing the stick his way. Then he comes for the back of my heels.

I stop and turn and growl, brandishing what suddenly seemed a twig. I had only intended the stick for a prop, not really thinking I'd have to use it. The rotten thing will fall apart on impact, into splinters if it weren't so wet.

No matter. The dog settles, and I am jogging again, making a point to get a sturdier stick.

A few dead-ends later, I know I'll have to return home the same way I came. I rummage through a construction site and find a couple of feet worth of two by four. It's too large to carry in one hand, and I cradle it like those men in the Army commercials carry there M-16's as they run towards the camera...

Doing more before nine a.m...

I am ready for the doggy gauntlet.

So yea, running is great. You know, it really is a very relaxing, meditative time, and to think only last week I considered a gym membership. What's in a gym? Fleurescent lights and sterile equipment.