Made it to Mammoth. The sky is clear and blue. Temperature borderline between wearing a sweatshirt for the hike I'll take when this is written, or just going in shirtsleeves. A few too many people for my taste, but this is peak season. I just need to abide.
I took a little detour on my way here. The plan was to leave Tuesday, board the dogs, then spend a few relaxing days writing in Mammoth while waiting for the team. Calene's in South Dakota so my time is my own.
Sunday morning on the back porch. Dogs at my feet. Looking out across the arroyo to the conical hill with the satellite towers on the northern edge. Yogurt with blueberries. A press of coffee. Yellow legal pad with a to-do list for the week ahead.
I ask you: is this the behavior of a man whose wife is out of town for ten days?
My stopwatch died the other day. Ultrak 495. Matte black. Capable of recording 100 lap splits. I've been using an Ultrak for about fifteen years. To my mind, the best stopwatch on the market….t is a comforting talisman, my fingers clicking start-stop-reset without my conscious mind noting. It is my grown-up version of Linus's blanket, a security totem that soothes in ways I am not prepared to publicly examine. On race day, when staring at a final result, the watch gives me a small endorphin rush.
1 p.m. Father's Day. Gift to myself: a new power washer. There's something amazing about a high pressure machine to clean every last bit of the backyard pavers and deck. It's like cleaning your physical soul. I tend to do this barefoot, just because there's something about walking around without shoes on when the sun is out and the pavers are warm.
Monday morning. June marine layer hanging over Southern California. Drinking stern black coffee from my new Yeti press and looking forward to finding today's words. Just back from a weekend in San Diego with Callie, where I surprised myself by not opening my laptop even once. Thanks to all of you who sent birthday wishes. I read and appreciated each one.
Turning points are hard. It's nice to be a solo act again but that means working without a net. Thus, I typically spend an hour in the darkest hours of the night running through a mental checklist of worry and uncertainty. The monsters that ignore me by day pounce on my chest at night, happy to remind me that writing offers no guarantees….
It has been a week, my people.
The moment I realized things were getting under my skin came on Thursday evening, as I tried to park for the Springsteen show at the Forum. I went to the wrong entrance and was instructed to turn around and go back down the street to an entirely different lot. Traffic was coming from both directions. I had no choice but to make a very illegal u-turn.
I usually write these missives on Sunday. It's my down day for the week and my mind is free to wander. But Calene and I spent the weekend in San Diego, hanging out with our oldest son to celebrate his birthday. There was no agenda. We wandered the waterfront to start the morning, stopping to tour the USS Midway, something I suggested because I'm writing a book about the Battle of Midway and the visit felt like a fine symbolic gesture. I also thought it was a great way to kill an hour or so.
