16| Chapter 12.33:
Summer Stroll East
The trail runs like a swimming lane, an obstacle course through the wood. Tree roots more than rocks steal stability from the soil and the bends are embanked, packed down from being pounded by running shoes stepped.
Left. Right. Left. Left. Right.
Hold steady and all lefts turn to right.
A slow rise over a rooty mound, a left bend to descend. The suited man marches behind, passed by the brained man. He’s sprinting now, gliding down the trail, gracing the bark of the trees with his fingertips as he flies reversals and leaps boulders. His pace does not falter.
An egregious right bend. An abysmal right bend. A left bend to a runway to a right bend again. The wind howls through the dead trees; sixty-eight in January.
It all started at 11:11 on 1/11 of the year twenty-twenty.
The trail hooks left, the brained man cannot stop running.
The suited man waits at The Monolith.
A weak left curl, a strong right break. A left, a ballet across the muddy ledge of a gradual slope dammed by logs and a rise.
Right and left hooks abound.
A famished sapling stands in the middle of the trail; the brained man swerves to the left, where the leaves had not been cleared. The suited man marched right, kept on the path. The sapling cracks at the root.
A weak snake curve cycles like a universe and takes a grand, wild strike to the left; a right lee is birthed, and the brained man carries his momentum up the wooden plank. For three miraculous steps he glides over that log, his feet never slipping, his balance never tilting.
He touches down at The Monolith. A triangularized garden of bricks. An arrow points skywards.
“The back cover of Running,” the brained man whispers. He’s really starting to get it now.
The brained man looks to Summer Stroll West. He looks back to the suited man, but sees no fedora.
The brained man stands alone at The Monolith.