I’m off. Down Beach Street, a bit of friction missing between my shoes and the wet, leaf-covered pavement. As I round the bend, the wind sweeps at my back and I hear the rainwater trickle and fall into the storm drain across the street.
Warwick Street. The wind picks up as I cross High Street, mostly deserted. The wind chimes on a house’s front porch are whipped up by the wind, flailing all over the place and creating a chaotic jingle-jangle as I run past. The wind beats against the storm door of the house next door, causing it to bump and fidget in its frame. On my right, a piece of disconnected rubber tubing is violently whipping back and forth off of a utility pole.
I use the change of lights to my advantage and cross the street, still going at a strong clip. A police cruiser going in the other direction turns on its spotlight, looks around the entrance to the bank parking lot, turns its lights off and enters. I wonder if they are looking for someone, and probably, unconsciously, pick up my pace.
I come upon the intersection of South Main and CT-17. A man was on the sidewalk, coming in my direction. Wait, wasn’t he? He disappears. I stop at the corner, for the light, and look around as the wind whistles in my ears. No sign of anyone. I convince myself that I am not crazy.
The car to my left was expecting me to ignore the light. It is still waiting to turn into the crosswalk. An attractive 40-something woman is looking straight at me out her rolled-down window, arm pressed to the outside of the passenger-side door. I wait, the car turns.
I cross the street, run past the hospital, and take advantage of an empty intersection to cross the street against the light. At the corner of South Main and the end of Main Street, a Ford Explorer waits at a green light. I wait for it to stop waiting. It continues to wait, and I cross the street. It continues to wait. For what, I do not know.
I run down Main Street, dodging pedestrians and, as always, their little kids. Sheltered from the wind by the buildings, I slow down and decide to adopt a more conservative pace. I run past a coffee shop and see Dan Selsam in the window. I do a double-take. He waves; I wave. He is wearing white earbuds and even though he is seated looking out the window, I wonder how he noticed me in the relative darkness outside the window.
The rest of Main Street is uneventful. A bit past Ferry Street, I put my keys in my mouth and take my shirt off. It’s 67º and humid and I’m getting sweaty, even with the wind.
I avoid a puddle on the way up to the Arrigoni, and the moment I get past the woods on my right, the wind hits. An unobstructed, gusty wind coming from the south. I put my head down and continue. The bridge is empty; the trucks that zoom by on my left leave me sprinkled with misty water. The current below me is going upriver, except immediately next to the river’s banks. The white-painted “Come On Over” on the red brick beckons me to Portland.
Every little puddle in the concrete sidewalk vibrates with each gust of wind. I get pushed to my left by the gusts. The poles of the streetlights are clanking and swaying, and the wind pours through the openings in the steel trusses, causing the entire bridge to give off a slight hum.
I notice that Exxon is selling gas for $2.049, or $2.099 on a credit card. I cross CT-17, jog in place on the island while I wait for cars to clear, and then zip across the street as the light changed, nearly getting hit by a car that didn’t seem to want to slow down for the jogger running into oncoming traffic.
The jog back up Portland’s Main Street was the worst so far. The wind was intense, and right in my face, pushing me back with a ferocity I hadn’t felt in a long time. I ducked my head into my chest and continued, putting more effort into each bound.
I came to the bridge and the wind would not cease. The Valley Oil billboard looked different, maybe new; in any case, it no longer had the electronic weather and time display, which I used to count on to see if I was on time for my desired pace. The sky in the distance, over the hills, was painted a milky grey by the lights reflecting off the clouds.
The wind on the bridge was ferocious. Coming from the south, it pushed me now to my right, into the guardrails of the bridge. I put my arm out to catch the railing, so as to stop bumping the rest of my body into it. Each lift of my foot brought a little lift in my step, throwing me slightly off balance. The hum of the steel was back, and louder. I looked out over Wilcox Island and up the river, and continued on.
Back up Main Street, turning the corner onto Washington, turning onto High. The wind had died down, and there was little to observe except some older men crossing the street at Broad and yelling something, to whom I do not know.
… For once, CT-66 was empty, so I crossed against the light at High, and jogged back to Wyllys. The warm lighting of the campus center dining hall lit up the faces of people inside as the milled around and collected their food. Small groups of students were walking or talking on the sidewalks as I continued down the road behind College Row.
Across Church, up Lawn, down Home. Mostly deserted. I cross Ravine and am determined to retain control on the slippery downhill, so I shorten my stride and resist coming down too hard on my feet. I make it past Ravine and try to slow, throwing my hands up to resist the forward momentum. I stop. I am home.
I take in the trash barrel and recycling bin and go inside. I imagine it’ll be a long time before it’s 67º and I can go running without a shirt again.
One Comment
mmm….no shirt!