When I go outside to the track each morning, nearby mountains still block the sun. I take off my shirt because even before six, the temperature approaches 80 degrees. I take my first steps of the long run, and I feel some comfort as I hear the crunch of gravel and dirt beneath my sneakers. As I take my first loop of the track, I see two familiar friends. They are the dogs of Taft Camp, known affectionately to all as Molly and Goldie.
My wife, Carole, has a black-tri Australian Shepherd. Although I’ve never met her dog, Gabe, Carole has sent me photographs of him. The dog we call Molly looks a lot like Gabe’s picture, and I always think of seeing Carole with her dog as I come closer.
The dogs sit majestically on the far end of the track, side-by-side, both facing the mountain where they expect to see the sun rise. They remain there, with their paws outstretched, their belly on the ground, and their heads held high, proud, alert as they watch for the sun to rise. Taft Camp must not be so bad, as is evidenced by these two beautiful dogs that stay here with us voluntarily, keeping us all company.
This morning I woke at 1:50 to resume my work on chapter five. I thought I would finish writing the chapter today, but I only made it through page 229 of the manuscript. Tomorrow I ought to finish a first draft of the chapter.
I ran 10 miles, boosting my running tally to 1,989 miles over the past 225 days.
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