Summer Jog

{This entry was orgininally written in 2004. I found it in my old files. I think it is very fitting for the season}

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Summer Jog

I believe the best way to acclimate oneself to summer is to take a jog around. People look strangely on walkers. They feel their privacy is being invaded by your extended presence. Running requires too much concentration, and after many knee problems it is simply out of the question.

So, rejuvenated by knowing I do not have to return to work for two whole days, I slip my orthopedic inlays into my gym shoes, shimmy/wrestle into my out of fashion, but supported sports bra, cover my insecurities with an old t-shirt, store my house key, in the safest place I have, and take off.

I have moved to an area called Wicker Park. I felt it was high time I investigated the namesake park. Across and down a busy street, the ‘park’ comes into view. The path curves around the swings; closed for repairs. It seems like poor planning by the Park District to close a playground at the start of summer. But I continue.

The park itself is resembles the ideal campus quad. There are stone tables with chess boards painted on them. There are picnic tables and shady trees. Everyone who wants a seat has one and everyone who wants a piece of grass has that. In the center of the park is a fountain, which with the right about of wind can spray a mist just when you need it. I quickly learn, the park is not large at all. All that is left is a field where a game I cannot decipher is wrapping up (Frisbee, golf, golf Frisbee – is that something?) and a basketball court, where the evening games are just beginning.

I turn right out of the part. I have no real idea where I am going, but know I want to stay off the main streets. It is amazing how quickly I leave my financial bracket and jog into the big times. I don’t notice this by the gates around the houses, or the fact that yesterday’s newspaper is not strewn across the sidewalk. It is the smell. The smell of Lillys, Black Eyed Susans, and all those other plants my mother spends the summers tending back home. The two foot squared manicured lawns also remind me of rent brake I get for living so close to the el, instead of this urban nirvana hidden from all but the jogger’s view.

I cross a street and the lights change to reveal a new citified haven. These homes come with noise, families, people, and events as I jog by. A family is playing in a slightly larger yard – maybe even 5x5. Bikes are everywhere. Two men, possibly father and son, are working on a car in the street as the kids, too big to enjoy riding bikes on the sideway watch on. My pace is slowed to a crawl; not by a cramp, but the overwhelming aroma of fried chicken. It is not KFC or any other pseudo-fried chicken. It is the real thing. I consider pretending to tie my shoe so I can enjoy the moment of summer a bit longer. But I know even a small pause will intrude on their blissful summer evening. At supper, instead of thanking the cook for the wonderful fried chicken, they will speak of the strange woman who was jogging, and then tied her shoes for twenty minutes, drooling.

I turn right. I know where I am. I am disappointed with this realization. Is there anyway my mind can forget where I am? Is there anyway I can turn off my sense of planning? Is there anyway I can just jog until I turn a corner and find myself at home without knowing it two blocks before?

No. Okay, well at least I know my limits. But I will not let this ruin my first summer evening spying on my neighbors. I remap out my route in my head and cross another busy street. I find the Aldi. It is always good to know were the closest one is.

It is getting harder to figure out the status of the homes I go by now. I jog by what seems like blocks of wooden fencing and see glimpses of beautiful homes. Why would someone want to keep all that beauty to themselves? Where is the joy in denying aesthetic value to another person? But not all the houses are caged. There is a wonderful stone home on the other side of the street. On my next trip, I will jog on that side of the street.

Following my route, I turn right. I see the busy street I must take ahead and dread the ending of this first time out. But the end is postponed by actual human interaction. A woman asks me if this is my dog. At first I think she means the rat-like dog in her arms. Though I am pleased she correctly identified me as a dog person, I was somewhat appalled by the thought of owning what was now licking her strawberry ice-pop. No, she meant the dog by the truck half way down the street. We approach the dog together. We share a feeling of responsibility, but do not want to intrude. We see we are close to a busy street and if the situation was reversed, would like someone to look out for our dog.

Oh, if I had a dog. I wish I had a dog.

We spot tags. We talk to him. He sets off at a nice trot. In my opinion, he knows where he is and since he is heading in the opposite direction of the busy street, I believe he will be okay. The woman and I depart, crisis averted, and I begin the final leg of my journey.

But wait - one more smell of summer - barbequed chicken - on the grill. Since the diners are behind the wooden fence, I take the opportunity to walk by very slowly. I smell the corn on the cob and yellow rice; a side dish combo that accompanied many Sunday meals back home.

I see my apartment, next to the el tracks. I see the grass my landlord is trying to grow in the sunless area between two buildings. I love the summer time in the city.