Running by the Tracks

I decided that I wasn't going to go for a jog as I was changing into my shorts. I didn't want to go outside and humiliate myself in a desperate attempt to get skinny. I plugged my ipod to my ears and was enveloped by The Shins. "Too much to do," I told myself, "you aren't going jogging," as I stepped out the door, into the cool evening.
My steps were short and quick. My breathing was harsh almost instantly. It was wonderful, and I hated it. I wanted to stop. A slight breeze brushed my hair back against my forehead, wiping up beads of sweat that were already forming. I ran. I ran for about 8 minutes (the length of two songs), and slowed to a power walk. My shins ached and my thighs rubbed together. Disgusting. I convinced myself to take a left at the pork billboard and head on home. Instead I took a right and began to jog again, down an unkempt gravel road.
I worried about cars. The road was narrow and riddled with trash and dirty, messy earth. Trying to jog on the uneven ground proved to be difficult; plus, I was tired. I began to power walk again. I swung my arms enthusiastically because I heard that provides a better work out. Swinging made the blood rush to my hands. The fingers were bulbous and felt tight, like the skin of a balloon. I swung just the same. When I reached the railroad tracks, I decided to turn toward home. I had a lot of homework waiting for me, and I bet mom was beginning to worry. I'd been gone for about 12 songs. Just the same, I took another right onto the railroad tracks, into the woods.
The tracks looked old. I hoped no trains would come. There would be no escaping it in the dense forest that surrounded the track. The tracks were old though, they didn't look fit to carry trains anymore. I wondered, as I walked, about what kinds of cargo a train of yesteryear may have carried. I wondered about hobos and vagrants. I hoped no train would come.
On the left side the track is the straight river, which curves around for miles and miles just to make a mockery of its name. It must have flooded when all the snow melted last week, because there were little algae-covered puddles in between the planks. It was hard to believe there was snow just last week. I thought about the little frogs laying dormant deep in the mud of the river. I wondered if they were emerging, maybe peeping their bulgy eyes up out of the water at me. I looked closely (as close as I could manage while still keeping a decent pace) into the puddles, searching for critters. I didn't find any. I did see deer tracks, though, in the mud alongside the right rail. I wished someone would have told me I was racing. The deer are way ahead of me. I suppose I'd have lost anyway.
I kept seeing displaced railroad spikes. I really didn't think the tracks were fit for trains, but I still worried. The spikes littered the ground for yards and yards of track. "I should pick one up for Bryan," I thought several times, for reasons I know not. But none of them seemed good enough. They weren't quite right. So I continued. I started jogging again.
I am Tolkien's dwarf. Even over my ipod, I could hear my feet crunching over the splintered tracks. I wished that I was more adept at woods-walking. Perhaps with practice. A flash of white shocked me out of my blind haste. Two white-tailed does ran across the rails not ten feet in front of me. They must have seen me long long before I saw them. They skittered and stopped, tails raised in alarm, and stared at me. For the first time since I'd started jogging, I stopped dead. The deer ran. Not ran, but flew, bounded. I swear their narrow hooves never touched the ground. It was majestic and beautiful. Too bad they felt threatened by me. I found myself wishing, ridiculously, that we may have been friends had they given me a chance. Not far down the tracks, though, I saw the remains of a shotgun shell. It contrasted boldly the grey and rotting strut on which it rested. "No wonder they ran," I thought to myself. As much as I want to at times, there is no method by which I can escape my humanity. I am one of them.
As I approached the crossing, where the civilization meets the forgotten track, I decided I would definitely pick up a spike for Bryan. But I couldn't find one. So I stopped and pryed one up. I hoped no trains would come. I hoped the track was truly forgotten. The spike will be of no use to Bryan, and I'm not sure that I'll actually give it to him. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I needed to pick one up.
I got to the road and decided, for real this time, that I'd head home. Home was still at least a mile and a half away. I began to jog again. I felt silly to the passersby. Motorists in their big SUVs and trucks sped by me. They all stare. Nearer to my house, I saw a dust colored mound up ahead. "Don't be an animal; be trash," I pleaded with no one in particular. It was an animal, though. It was a doe. It was fresh. It would have been sleeping, had its guts not frothed out of its mouth and nose. I'd never been so close to a deer before. My eyes stung. Poor creature.

I sprinted the last leg of the journey. There was gravel in my shoes and my feet felt like they were moving in slow motion. I wanted to stop. After five miles, I was finally feeling tired. I reached the house, pulled my shoes off. They squelched, not from sweat as I'd suspected, but from blood. The gravel turned my heels into hamburger. ... poor creature.

I think I won't go for a jog tomorrow too.