Got Mashed Potatoes

We typically go running at the same time every day. Most days, Nolan is OK with the idea, and gets in the stroller without an issue. There are books, snacks, and milk for him. I pull down the garage door, and we head north, up the hill of the alley. At the top, the chocolate Labrador retriever jumps and barks at us, as if it's the first time he's ever seen us get this close to his yard. We turn left out of the alley and cross the street. Crossing the next street, the ground levels, then slopes downward, giving my legs a break. I turn left for the walk, right to avoid the sidewalk bit that sticks up, then left for the next walk, and finally right on Illinois Avenue, just like the game, but without hotels. We pass the house that was for sale last year -- quite cheap too. But it didn't have a garage, and looked like it needed work. The little sign with the bird saying, "Let's do lunch" is still in the tree, from when the old owners lived there. At the end of the street, we turn left into the woods. Passing under the trees, we enter the seminary's back parking lot. We turn downhill and pass the cafeteria workers, sitting at the picnic table, enjoying their own lunch and cigarettes. We pass nuns, who smile and will say "Hi", but only if I say "Hi" first. They always smile at Nolan. We pass through the corridor of trees and stop for the traffic at the head of Bay View Park. We enter the shade, and twist in and out with the trail. We see the same downed trees, climbing vines, park benches and lapping waves every day. We cross the soccer field where the Mexican teams play on the weekends, between cookouts. The trail moves uphill, and we see the man in the middle of the field, surrounded by aluminum, trying to get tan. I see his lonely car to the left, by the road. The trees at the top of the hill stand tall, branching together, and offer their shade. My legs recover from the hill, and I try to get some momentum back behind the jogging stroller. This is where we usually see the old man in the red and tan jacket, ambling along with his cane. He sees us, and his face opens real wide -- so wide it could be a grimace or a sneeze. And he says, "So you made it out today!"His face completes the grin, and I say we wouldn't miss it. He keeps crawling along, and we pass the investment firm on the lake, its flags blowing in the wind. The trail straightens out, bringing us closer to traffic. Up ahead, the new lakeside developments of St. Francis loom in all their fast-food brick glory. We take a sharp left and run directly at the lake. I check the stroller to see if the kid is still awake, and we turn down the alley, south, watching the water slap the rocks and the orioles light from bush to bush, following us and cawing. I pick up speed, running toward the largest hill of the run. I place both hands on the stroller, and my stride shortens. I think of what I need to do when I get home. I think of what I will have to do when I get to work. I think of how I need to get faster. How I need to tweak this daily ceremony to sharpen my legs. I wonder if the kid is asleep yet. I think of what I can write in my book or on my website. I think of ways I can convey a plot or emotion, how I can string words together and together again to bring people to this place of understanding I have reached at the top of the hill over the lake . . . before I have to turn around . . . and run back through it all again.