Holden isn't a very athletic guy. He smokes like a chimney and doesn't eat very well. But throughout Catcher, he walks all over Manhattan. To hotels and museums and bars and bus terminals. Sometimes he takes taxicabs, but, for a good portion of the novel, he's on the streets. Forty-one gorgeous blocks. If you've every been in New York City, you know a city block is about two miles long, so he walks a long-ass way back to his hotel.
This morning, I ran the annual Thanksgiving Day 10K Turkey Trot in Marquette, Michigan. That's 6.2 miles in less than 30-degree weather. Along Lake Superior, it actually hurt to breathe at points. It was cold. But I did it, and in a really decent amount of time. The race started at 9 a.m., and I finished at around 10:12 a.m. Not too shabby for a slighty out-of-shape, forty-something-year-old poet.
I won't lie. The last mile or so was pretty painful, but I pushed through. When I was through, I felt pretty darn good about myself. And I experienced no guilt when I sat down to two Thanksgiving meals today. Right now, my legs are feeling a little sore. The real test will be tomorrow morning. If I can climb out of bed without major pain, I will count myself lucky.
Besides the trotting this morning, I really didn't do anything else today. I'm not a Black Friday shopper. I don't get up at 1 a.m. to buy a Furby 2000 at Walmart. At the moment, I'm watching A Muppet Christmas Carol with my wife. Then we're probably going to bed. I know that doesn't sound very exciting, but I'm not really into exciting. I'm into predictable and quiet. Exciting carries with it hints of surprise and upheaval. Not my thing.
Saint Marty has had a pretty good Thanksgiving. Sedate. Typical. Calm. Blessed.
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| Not my scene |
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