The Running Solution

I’m not in any danger of her passing me, but she’s sure keeping up, a

surprise in itself. She can tell I’m surprised too and feels good

about that. As a sprinter, I’m no Jamaican, but I can be a strong,

front-row charger. Then imagine my chagrin, her still there, almost

shoulder-to-shoulder. We run through loose sand and stop at the edge

of the water near The War Memorial.

“The Kurds are such determined fighters,” she says, pants,

remonstrates, “we should just load them up with good weapons and let

’em go to town.”

“How do you know they won’t go to town on us? Or the Turks?”

“Because we’ll give them air support and promise that if they clean up

the mess in Syria and Iraq, wipe the world clean of ISIL, we’ll see

that they get generous portions of Iraq, Syria, and Turkey right up in

that triangle where they meet.”

“Afghanistan too?”

“Oh yeah, Afghanistan too, of course. Four Corners.”

“Instant Kurdistan?”

“Instant Kurdistan.”

“Can we just do that?”

“Why not? They’ll earn it.”

“Won’t the Turks want to stop it?”

“Fuck the Turks.”

“How about Israel? Iran? Egypt?”

“How about fuck them too?”

“How about I beat you to The Shell?”

“No, The Zoo.”

“OK, The Zoo. Ready? On your mark.”

But by then she’s already running, way before “Go!”

“You cheat!” I yell at her back.

“Please try to keep up!” she laughs over her shoulder, the bright

soles of her ASICS winking alternately as she faces forward and picks

up speed.

Talk story

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