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The Last Run of the Red New Balance
-Larry Finkelstein
ne’s life can be reduced to a series of
goodbyes. For me, and my wife, this
period of time signifies our goodbye
to Tucson, Arizona where we have lived the
most pleasant of existences for the past
twelve years. We moved here from Florida
so that Heather could have a new career.
She flourished. As for me, I’ve been an
English teacher for twenty years, ten years
in Florida, ten years here. For the first ten I
coached football, for the past ten I’ve fallen
in love with Heather. For whatever reason,
either lack of opportunity or lack of desire,
we have found it difficult to find friends
here, thus our retreat to the peninsula. Our
friends in Jacksonville are starting families.
It’s time to uproot and replant.
And maybe it’s time for this clown to choose
another circus. I love teaching. I love the
show. I love being thought of as a noble
member of an imaginary community
including Socrates, Jesus and Buddha. But
I see my friends and families enjoying the
material gains of other professions. And,
although I never felt the needs for
conspicuous consumption, maybe a
vocation with more generous remuneration
would be beneficial to my remaining time
upon this mortal coil? And so, I’ve ordered
business cards with the moniker
“educational services” and “corporate
training”. I have yet to muster the reality to
place one in someone else’s hand. It’s o.k.
though; I have to actually move to Florida
before I can begin work. So, that’s where we
are, sitting in libraries, while real estate
agents guide strangers around our home
like bass in a stream, until, one bites.
Meanwhile, my beautiful wife works and I’m
a stay at home dad with no kids. The plan
was to be in Florida by now. Otherwise, I
would have started the school year.
I’ve also taken up running. Only blocks
from a national park, my anti-social wants
are satiated in the solitude of long distances.
Sitting at the foot of the Rincon Mountains,
desert trails serpentine platoons of cactus
and brush. It is devoid of humans for miles.
The brown caliche bakes under triple digit
sunshine. Nineteenth century mining pits,
marked by seldom seen signposts, signify
distances to the next. It is a tapestry of
browns and greens set against a blue sky,
frozen in time, belying the heavy heat of
midday. Hares and fowl disappear across
the wash breaking from the underbrush as
they are startled by my rhythmic footfalls.
Today is the last run for these sneakers. My
rotation has been the same for years, always
New Balance as close to black on black as
possible. For me, they fit better and last
longer than Nike. I ain’t hatin’; I’m just
sayin’. Not sure why I gravitate towards
black on black. I like to think there is
something rabbinical about it. Today’s are
black with red trim and dusted in dirt. Prior
to this summer, I would wear the new
sneakers to work; I am an action-teacher.
Then, when they got a little scuffed, the
sneakers would be relegated to the gym.
Finally, like today’s red, New Balance, they
would become trail sneakers. I like running
outdoors in old sneakers and feeling the
details in the ground. When I can feel the
ground too well, they are garbage. As I peek
down and acknowledge the shoes, I realize
that this is the last pair of sneakers
purchased before resigning. Today is our
last run together.
Horse Shit! I jump cut to the right avoiding
excremental disaster. In the early morning
hours, locals ride horse-back through the
saguaros. I imagine it’s gorgeous. The
evidence of these excursions is manifested
in piles. It’s just part of living in the western
vistas.
O

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Tucson is a small town. Once a thing is
known by one, it is essentially common
knowledge. As Heather was uncomfortable
with the concept of lame-ducking her job for
a couple months, the entire situation
remained clandestine. This left me in an
odd position. I submitted my resignation
paperwork to the school district, but
promised not to reveal my forthcoming
disappearance to anyone else at the school
as it would undoubtedly be reported to my
wife’s coworkers by one of their many
children attending the high school at which
I was employed. As evinced by the
grammatical struggles of the previous
sentence, it was not a comfortable position.
With the last week of the semester comes
the distribution of the fall schedules.
Adjacent to my room number and “English
11” there was a “TBA”. I was confronted. I
was non-committal. The truth was
assumed. One forgets, or takes for granted,
how much one is loved. Before and after
school for the next few days, a maudlin
procession ensued. I was not expecting it. I
considered myself background scenery in
their lives. I wasn’t expecting tears. I
wasn’t expecting the physical pain in the
middle of my chest. These people never
really knew me; they know just the
character employed by the community to
sell them basic skills and knowledge. But
they kept coming, one after the other. I felt
hollow. The thin façade of my workplace
self is more beloved than what lies beneath.
This is not a new phenomenon. Truth can
only be examined in solitude. Luckily, truth
can also be ignored there. So I run alone.
As I run, I try to clear my mind as much as
possible. I find that to be a good starting
point. This is a good way to reach an
understanding with oneself as to the
pathway to one’s joy or the root of one’s
anxiety. When I first started running
outside, I would listen to music, timing my
distance by the playlist. Three miles would
be an average of eight songs. I take my
time. Now, I leave the music at home. The
sounds of the desert, the buzzing, the
scattering, the chirping, pace me. Many
trails stretch across this wilderness. In the
dry seasons, they are visible for miles like
veins protruding from malnourished flesh.
The trail markers identify distances.
Calculating one’s journey is easy. Today,
I’ve chosen a four mile route. I’m starting
south, looping back north on a different
trail, and then east for about a mile into
Monument Wash. Not sure; never saw a
monument. The peak overlooking the wash
avails one a vantage point of the wilderness.
From there, I’ll double back over my own
footsteps for half a mile or so and pick up
another path back to the trailhead. I leave a
quart of water in the car for my return. It’s
over a hundred degrees. Peligrosso es mi
nombre media.
The first seven tenths of a mile are south
and lead to a picnic area. There are dozens
of these concrete picnic tables scattered
across the Tucson national park landscape.
They are the stalwart remains of President
Roosevelt’s employment plans of the early
thirties. In one park, a three and a half mile
road leads up a mountain to where a dam
was planned but abandoned. In another,
one can stumble across the old Catalina
Honor Camp where European Americans
penned Asian Americans. Hiking trails lead
to and from the site but tourists seldom stop
here. Maybe the trails at the upper
elevations lend one to thoughts of a higher
purpose than unjustified, interminable
internment. Javelinas, deer, and snakes use
the abandoned paths to scout for water. I’m
always wary of mountain lions though and
know not to run from them. I won’t see any
wildlife on today’s journey as only humans
and insects stray this close to other humans.
The bees suck! I mean they are awesome, in

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general, all flying in ways that flummox
physicists, but the killer bees are not cool.
And they are killer bees. Calling them
Africanized honey bees is nominally
mitigating to the viciousness of these
winged murderers. Sometimes buzzing
makes me run fast. One mustn’t linger for
long. The flies love sweat and the big desert
flies sound like bees. So run son.
The journey is what illuminates. A few
weeks ago, at the end of July, I was right
about here on my run when I turned to the
mountains and saw the cloud begin to form.
The monsoonal rains are beautiful. I will
miss them. The cloud starts as an innocent
cumulus hovering still on the other side of
the mountain range. Over the ensuing
hours, it builds. Unable to transcend the
peak of the Rincons, the white puff deepens
in color, still bright white in its center, but
grown so large, now silhouetted in silver,
propelled by the desert heat, the cloud
launches bright white pillars of itself higher
into the atmosphere. Finally, this mass of
water, frozen yet still growing, creeps over
the mountains. It is now a deep, grave gray.
Other clouds have gathered and amassed to
block out the sun. Late afternoon turns to
early dusk. Lightning, cloud to cloud and
cloud to ground, begins somewhere beyond
sight in the valleys trapped between rows of
mountain tops. In a drop, then two, then
faster than any human pace, the rain sprints
down the western slopes turning path to
stream. The grey sheets of water gradually
move west across the foothills and across
the old pueblo. These mountains have veins
of copper, silver, and even gold. I like to
think that the residual electricity in the
metals beneath my feet help to energize my
body. When I’m here, I feel like I could run
forever.
No rain today. No clouds. Just heat.
Nature at its most pristine. Shirtless, I feel
the hot breeze as it rises from the dirt.
Surely as the cactus and mesquite are part
of this photograph, I must also belong here,
running. I lift my gaze to the mountains on
the left, covered in yellowed grass, dotted
with green, in parts, suffused in it. An
empty sky of deep blue frames the tops.
How ancient are these hills? Imagine the
miners, and historically they were here, in
this very spot, camped out at three in the
morning. The night sky is a sea of stars,
occasionally on fire bolting over the
blackness of the east where the mountains
will appear in a few hours cascaded in hues
of pinks and purples. From my old
classroom, in the middle of town, on the
second floor, one could view this daily. I
hope one does enjoy it daily as this one did
for many years in room 205. Some days
were good, some days were not, but the
sunrise was a beautiful reminder of
perspective. Who bequeathed me this path?
The indigenous peoples of this region left
settlements which scientists date to the
eleventh century. Their ghosts are here. I
imagine that prior to our historical
accounts, other civilizations flourished in
these foothills only to succumb to
glaciations. How far below my footsteps are
the castles of the forgotten?
I carry my t-shirt with me, switching hands,
evading invisible tacklers. Here, I slow my
pace for a second and scan through the
brush for parked cars. This picnic area is
accessible from another road. Seasonally,
people will bring lunches or walk dogs or
participate in the nefarious activities of
those who acquiesce to the demons of a
lesser nature. But today is a day when all
mammals seek shade. Even the reptiles
burrow into the cool desert floor. For they
know, if they persist, the sun’s slow violence
will drain all life. I am solar! When I first
started on these trails, I would try and
replace my shirt if I felt I was approaching
people, not out of modesty or
embarrassment, but rather, politeness.

4. 4
Sometimes in my daily life, I feel guilty for
not dressing like an early twentieth
centurion replete with woolen hat and
jacket. How did those people survive in this
heat? This century is so much more
comfortable. Predictably, the area is
desolate. I could probably run naked today
but the image is ruined by the necessity of
socks and the titular sneakers. The trail
continues, turning north and dipping down
into a wash. Parts of the trail cut back and
forth across washes that drain the mountain
rain. The sun-dried silt turned sand is
challenging. In this subtle depth, the trail
narrows. The draining rain from the
mountains provides sustenance for shallow-
rooted trees and bushes. Thorns grow on
most vegetation here to prevent the
population from ingestion. In the heat, the
oxygen dissolves. A tangible foreboding
lurks as the path winds through a waterless
bog. The first few times through this section
were sketchy. I couldn’t see any residual
footprints as is customary in arid places.
Although it hadn’t rained in days and the
rest of the trail is gritty and dry, some
patches of dampness prevail in varying
deepening shades of brown unabsorbed by
the rock-hardened caliche. But I just kept
going and as the ground dried on the next
incline, and the green receded into yellow
into beige, I could feel the oxygen again as
one emerging from an underwater tunnel
into the light and safety of the surface
happier in the surmounted risk. Can a
person experience true exhilaration without
traversing the processes of fear and
emptiness? If one makes decisions solely
motivated by fear, one is left to collapse
upon himself like a dying star. There is no
enthusiasm in fear. I choose enthusiasm
and I run faster, not deterred by my fear,
but inspired by it. That’s why I’m following
my Heather to Jacksonville. Optimism is
energy. That’s why I followed her here. I
can’t wait until I get to see her tonight. I
have nothing special planned. I’ll pick up
something healthy for our dinner. She’ll
come home later than she planned. We’ll
eat and watch Jeopardy. She’ll fall asleep on
the couch while I’m doing the dishes. We’ll
go to bed and snuggle until one of us sleep
breathes and the other will roll over and do
the same. It’s the best part of everyday.
ow, the mountains are on my right.
The trail follows the crest between
two washes then descends and veers
east toward the peaks. The path continues
over a series of inclines and declines to the
base of the foothills. As one ascends, the
entire landscape opens revealing the profile
of the Catalinas, the adjacent mountain
range to the Rincons. Mansions scatter the
face of the Catalinas. Somewhere a lord of
capitalism gazes south across the city as the
sun rolls west ignorant of his intentions.
Equally ignorant, I jog at my petty pace,
equipped with a stupid smile as I imagine
her face. Time becomes meaningless on my
runs. I feel the ubiquitous presence of a
greater power in these places. I’ve studied
religions. I have also studied Calculus. My
mind has limits as to the depths of its
comprehension. If one cannot grasp
calculus, what of the pretense of
understanding divinity? Morality must be
descriptive, not proscriptive. Heather was
very patient with me as I discovered this
truth. One is honest because it makes one
feel good to be honest. A person needs to
feel proud of his actions. The Greeks called
it “integrity”. Like an integer, we are whole
numbers, fractioned by compromised
values. I eat healthy, I exercise, I follow the
basic principles of polite human behavior so
as not to compromise. On either sides of
this philosophical path are traps spiraling
downward to resentment and guilt. I’ve
slipped before; I hope not to slip again.
Today, I am sure of my footfalls. The
junction of three paths marks the entrance
to Monument Wash. From here, it’s a
steady incline to an overlook in the foothills
where one has a vantage across the arroyo.
This is the border of the National Park.
There is no fence. On a map at the
trailhead, a green shade marks the
wilderness from the official park. That is
the only claim of separation. The trails
continue into the mountains. I’ve taken
those long hikes before. They lead to
N

5. 5
natural springs, other parks, even across
Reddington Pass into the Catalinas and
Mount Lemmon. But that journey is for
another day. I know I can keep running
deeper into the abyss of nature, losing
myself in the beautiful minutia. On the
opposite side of the wash, I can see a
scorched tree gripping the slope with its
roots as it reaches skyward with the small
remains of its green life. This was a
lightning strike as evidenced by the
specificity of the destruction. A fire would
have left its traces for acres until it exceeded
its fuel. This tree was solely selected for
electrification. I stare at it. I convince
myself that the extra expenditure of energy
is small in comparison to the mystery. And
I think of her, and I look at my shoes. It’s
time to go. To keep on would be selfish,
even greedy. I came for my inspiration, now
I must pass it on, inspired in my life with
Heather. I think about our impending
evening and the release of my soul into hers.
I turn towards home.
The journey back again always begins as a
struggle. Human knees are miracles of
nature, but like all miracles of nature, their
demise is inevitable. Walking is cajoled into
shuffling and implored into jogging.
Thankfully, the pain subsides. One day it
won’t. That will be a tough day, but it will
not be today. I’m a mile and a half away
from the trailhead. In about fifteen
minutes, I’ll be drinking water and
stretching my hamstrings. I do my best to
extract all the nectar I can on the return. I
breathe deep and keep my eyes lifted to the
scenery. Whoa! I extend laterally with my
right leg at the last minute to avoid an
enormous heap of poop. That could have
turned out a lot worse. In fact, it worked
out pretty well. I am becoming more agile
every day. Instead of imagining all the
horse shit I’ve avoided, I focus on the paths
that have led me to today’s beauty. It’s
worked out pretty well. Thanks.