Jogging to Cadaverville
Donal Mahoney | Alankrita Amaya
He’s out there again, my neighbor, the doctor, waiting for the snow plow to pass so he can jog on a clean street.
It’s 5 a.m. and we’ve had three inches of snow and it’s still coming down but nothing can stop him.
Doc jogs every morning, good weather or bad.
This morning we meet because I’m out spelunking in the snow and the dark for my morning paper.
Going through his warm-ups, he invites me once again to join him for a jog, an invitation he extends when we meet on dark mornings.
As I have told him before, I tell him once again that I’ll arrive soon enough in Cadaverville and have no desire to get there faster.
Months ago, I told him about articles in the paper, three or four times a year, indicating that another otherwise healthy man had dropped dead while jogging.
I tell him that’s not a good thing.
One of the deceased, I mention, was a cardiologist like him. Can’t remember his name, I tell him, but he was also young, with kids.
I go on to explain that I am a believer in Recliner Therapy, something I find very beneficial.
I add that I’ve never heard of a soul dropping dead in a recliner. I admit, however, that could happen but so far I have seen no mention of such a tragedy in the paper.
Thirty years my junior at least, this young doctor who jogs asks what I do for exercise as he puffs through his warm-ups.
I tell him I push all the way back in my humongous recliner at least three times a day and wiggle my toes, grab a Kleenex and blow my nose.
I tell him I believe in a holistic, head-to-toe approach to exercise.
The snow plow finally passes and the young doctor chuckles, hikes up his sweat pants and jogs off, arms swinging, through flakes of snow.