My spit bubbles, and my quads spasm.  I’m going too fast, but not fast enough.  Downhills are like that.  In my headphones, Toy Caldwell sings to me about freight trains, lost love and Georgia.  Waller Street is all sunbeams and hangovers as I near Seventh Street.  No one is up running this early.

Dogs yap from behind an open fence.  Some mornings the terrier mutts chase me.  Today I only hear them.  My grey synthetic shirt isn’t drenched in sweat yet.  It is only seventy-eight degrees.  It will be one-hundred soon.  I have to pick up my yellow running shoes extra high to clear the overgrown zeroscape garden that is overtaking the sidewalk.  I don’t use good form, and instead of raising my knees I have cactus and decorative rosemary nip at my toes.  I like zeroscaping, but this morning it doesn’t like me.  I lurch forward with the snag and have to jerk my left leg up to keep my face off the ground.  Since my two knee surgeries my left leg is used to doing all of the snap course corrections.  My right leg flings forward in an extra long stride, and my trip is successfully avoided.  I know I am safe when inertia flings sweat from my forehead causing my fluids, but not my face, to kiss the ground.

I am coming to the bottom of the hill, and as it levels off, sunbeams splatter against the murals and graffiti of sixth street.  The decorative intersection of Waller and Sixth is almost a cartoon of colors and crosswalks.  Friendly road humps are placed at the four-way stop to gently remind drivers of their mistakes.  “*Bump Bump* If there had been a pedestrian here, they would be dead.”  I stop in the shadow of the abandoned building on the northeast corner.  I lift my absorbent shirt to wipe sweat off my face.  A Volvo and an E-350 drive past each other.  The Volvo heads toward downtown and the van toward adventure or a paint store.  I walk toward the intersection.  I look at the squinting eyes of a  Civic driver.  I nod her on, but I’m certain I’m either an angelic being in the sunbeams or she didn’t see me.

The Lexus driver stops behind the white line.  He’s memorized the “Don’t block the box” signs posted all over town.  His sunglasses look promising, and the line of five more cars look like I may be standing there too long.  I wave, and he nods his head toward me.  I’m not breathing hard any more as I jog off into the cross walk.  I don’t stop looking at his shades.  I cross the first strip of the crosswalk, the second, the fourth.  *Screech*  With too much gas, the Lexus jumps toward the crosswalk.  I would barely touch his fender if I took another step, but as he sees me his Ray-Bans display horror.  It is hard to think you almost killed or maimed someone before 8am.  But, I’m not hurt at all.  My mistrust saved us.  We both look at the other waiting to see if anyone will be scolded or scolding.  Obviously, I was in the right of way, but I’ve had drivers yell at me for using a crosswalk for walking.  Instead, we are just happy I’m not splattered on his hood.  I mouth, “It’s okay,” and he waves me on.  I give the Lexus a wide berth and continue toward the train tracks without turning back.

At Fifth Street, downtown reflects the light that almost killed me.  Toy finishes his ballad of blindness and new beginnings, and I feel like running really fast.

Eight minutes.  I had eight minutes to get from my car to my desk.  The uncovered lot was the sticky wet of rain and oil.  It frothed a little as I walked.  I still wore ties back then.  You have to make a good impression while you are in training.

I’m a tactile guy.  “Phone, wallet, keys,” is my pat-down mantra whenever I leave home or work.  Since starting the new job I had forgotten to add a line.

“Agh! Where’s my badge?” I thought as I pivoted back to my car.

Center console. Empty. Man-purse. Empty. Side cubby. Empty.  I began doing the math thinking, “Six minutes left, and if I search another three, fail to find my bag… I better just get the guard to credential me in now.”  I frothed across the lot.

Door one opened to a tiled entry way.  I took a right at the slippery when wet sign and into the carpeted lobby.  Door two hit me with sixty-three degree air that made me very aware of how damp my shirt was.  I young woman sat on the fake leather couch waiting to interview for the position of any temps who got fired for being late.  I smiled at her thinking, “Don’t take my job.”  The guard station behind the blue counter was vacant.  I approached it hoping to find a button or a bell to summon my savior.

The badge read “D. McFarland” over a bar code.  We were supposed to turn them in every day during training.  I had forgotten for the first two days to turn in my badge.  Friday I had remembered to turn in my badge.  With pride I had placed it in the security guard’s cubby.  Today I had forgotten that I had remembered.

I clipped the badge to my belt and swiped it over the grey scanner of the office door.  I pulled the badge on its retractable lanyard twice as I walked down the hallway to the break room.  I knew that playing with my badge like a four year old breaking a set of blinds or a car window looked unprofessional, but I felt like Batman using my “utility belt.”  It was okay if Batman was late.  I turned right, swiped the badge again and entered the windowless break room.

“Put the lunch in the fridge, pour coffee, get out, four minutes.” I picked fridge number two and jammed my lunch bag between two casserole dishes.  I thought to myself, “Potluck on a Monday, weird.”  My amusement melted as I approached the empty coffee pots.  I didn’t care if I made it on time any more.  I cared about coffee.  I almost fell asleep in training on Friday and today we were supposed to meet all the managers and the new boss.  Coffee was necessary, but I didn’t want to cross an office taboo.  See some offices have specific people who are allowed or supposed to make coffee and some offices are a free for all.  I didn’t know which kind of office environment I was in.  I turned to a man who looked like he had been here a while.  I spoke in an un-rushed manner, “I’m Daniel, the new guy.  Do you know the coffee protocol here.  Can anybody make more?”

“Well Daniel the new guy, I’m Bob and I’m newer than you.  I say go for it.  I give you permission,” said over relaxed Bob from his seat at the break table.  I thought Bob seemed out of place.  He should be just as late as I was.

“I’ve been here three days, and haven’t seen you around.  What department are you in?”  I said to Bob as I poured grounds into a fresh filter.  The aroma gave me hope for my 10am break.  He responded as he stood up, “I’m fresh from the mid-west. I’m excited to finally start here.”  As I walked to the door I said to the sitting Bob, “Well we work hard, but the team is good.  You’ll love Austin.  Have a good day.”

I sat in my training desk and dumped out my study materials.  The trainer said, “Now that we are all here.  Please welcome our management team.  We’ll start with my new boss, Bob.”

Each step was earned.  “How could the trail runners do that?”  I pondered in my throbbing brain.  Middle aged men in skimpy shorts pounded up the incline.  When I hike I pretend it is survival of the fittest.  I am a velociraptor overtaking prey.  I will push myself past others. “Ok, you can’t pause for a breather until you overtake that family with two kids.”  These trail runners are the T-Rex of the mountain.  As they sped past me, I became a non-combatant Zen-master.  “We are all here to enjoy nature.  It isn’t about competition.”

This story is about Scottie.  Scottie lives in one of the most beautiful valleys in Alaska.  But, his scout leader drove him south of a big city to hike an incredibly steep trail.  I never saw the van, but I assume it smelled of chocolate and body odor.  As I solo hiked up, the troop was hiking down.  I could hear the cawing of young teens when the wind wasn’t blowing.  Then I saw them coming over a rise.

“Robert, get back on the trail!”

“I.  Am.  A. Mountaineeeer!” Robert would dramatize a word with each bounding step.  This started the stampede.

Teenagers are not self-conscious.  It is often quoted that teens are slaves to peer pressure.  I believe it is more that their peripheral vision has no self-consciousness.  True, their peers influence their actions greatly, but they only partake in “stupid” actions because they have a limited view of who is in their proximity for possible social interactions.  The stampede down the mountain began because the boys could only see each other.  They had a false cohort.  They failed to realize that several dozen or even hundred people would participate with them in climbing up and down that mountain.  A teenager doesn’t speed because his or her friend’s opinion is overly important. He speeds because a cop’s opinion doesn’t exist.

I shattered the boys’ worldview.  At a narrow section of trail, I brought the first scout to a halt.  My presence caused him to realize, “At this speed, one of us will fall off.”  The slowdown telepathically spread to the troop.  The flock of starlings slowed and sheepishly looked at me, the adult, for approval.  I nodded and they lumbered past.  The last boy said, “Thanks mister.  There’s some more up there.”  I replied, “No problem. You boys be safe.” Fat chance.

I came to the top of the rise where I first spied the boys when I saw the stragglers.  Two scout leaders, and a smaller child.  His green jacket was too big and his steps too small.  I thought nothing of it as I grunted, “Howdy,” and continued up.

“Aaahhh!”

I whirled around to see the smaller child grasping his ankle.  The scout leader was awkwardly retracing his steps to a sharp turn in the treeless path.  A man-sized boulder blocked the path and hikers were supposed to flow around it.  Slightly to the left of the boulder sat the small child who obviously had failed at the maneuver.

“Scottie!  Did you roll your ankle?”  “Uh huh.”

Emasculation began to creep over our hero and he said, “I think I can stand.”  He braced a hand against the boulder, grunted against his swollen ankle, and crumpled back to the path.

I was fifteen yards away.  I knew I should show concern.  With two scout leaders close to the child I assumed it would be safe to restate the facts, “He rolled his ankle.  You guys need anything?”

The hat-less scout leader bellowed down to the rest of the troop, “Tell Robert to stop.  Jake, bring up the first aid kit.” Scottie drank water from his over engineered canteen while the other scout leader untied his shoe. The hat-less leader turned to me, “We should be okay.  Thank you.”  I could see Scottie wiggling his toes and flexing his ankle.  He only grimaced.  There were no howls of a broken bone.

“Alright.  Godspeed Scottie.  You still have about fifteen thousand feet.  It is going to be a long day.”  I regretted the words as soon as I said them.  I should have encouraged the kid so I said, “But, I believe in you.”

At this point, James showed up panting with a red backpack.  I turned around and began attacking the scree leading to the next flat section.  I thought, “Don’t slip and look like an idiot in front of the kid you just terrorized with compassion.”  The rocks underneath me gave a few inches, so I put my hands to the steep ground for stability.  I heard muffled conversations and grunts below me, but I assumed my adventure with the scouts was over.  “Focus on the rocks. Focus on your hands,” I told myself.

When I reached the top of the scree I dusted myself off and decided it was time to look around for a bald eagle.  I looked for a silhouette against the waves in the Turnagain Arm, no luck.  But, I scanned up the valley and saw a hovering shape, a buzzard with a white head.  I breathed out, “Wow, this is where I live.”

From my perch I glanced forty yards below me to the now huddled troop.  Everyone was looking through their packs.  The Good Samaritan in me shouted over the wind, “Do you need anything?” The hat-less leader hollered, “If you have some fresh Ace bandage, that would be great.”  He held up a moldy and overstretched specimen.  I began sliding back down the scree, toes first, butt almost touching the ground.  “Yes!  Be there in a minute.”

When I reached Scottie and the troop, I could see everyone was pausing.  The adults didn’t have the tools they needed.  All the boys were daydreaming, kicking rocks, or punching each other.  They were a very calm bunch given the circumstances.  I greeted the sitting boy, “Hey Scottie, we’ll get you fixed up and down the trail.”  I pulled my pack off and a slight panic ran up my spine.  What if I hadn’t packed the bandage?  I would be one more unprepared adult.

I clawed out my red first aid pouch from my pack.  Yes, I put a fanny-pack in my pack.  The Ace bandage was pressing against the open zipper in anticipation.  “I’ll let you take care of it,” I told the hat-less scout leader as I handed him the bandage.  “Thanks,” he said as he took the bandage and passed it off to the hat-wearing leader who was running the OR.

The waiting rooms small talk began on the mountainside.  “So where are you guys from?”  “Yeah really.  That’s a long way to drive with the troop.”  “Oh me, I am from south Anchorage.”  “No, never hiked this trail.  It’s really steep.  Are you training the troop for something big?”

Scottie was wrapped up and pushing toward standing.  He limped a few steps and the rest of the troop began to lean downhill toward the van.  I could hear the hat-wearing troop leader murmuring assessment questions to the standing boy.  I quietly advised the hat-less leader, “I don’t know if you are allowed, but I’d give him some Tylenol or something.  He still has a long walk.”

“James, do you have any pain meds?”  “What are those?” “You know, Tylenol, Ibuprofen.  Stuff you take when you have a headache.”  James shook a bottle from his pack, “The red ones in there say Advil.”  The hat-wearing nurse directed Scottie to swig the pills and extra water.

I prepared my exit by saying, “Well, I’m glad you all are okay.  Be safe on the way down.”

“Thanks for the help.  Scottie, what do you tell the man?”  Scottie squinted into the sun, “Thanks mister.”  I smiled back, “You’re welcome, and remember, always be prepared.”

His last name is ancient, as old as I am alive.  His first name is “healed by Ya.”  I spent an hour in a Sear’s parking lot with this child of God.

A few moments before the parking lot, my left turn signal existed.  It blinked.  I would be turning soon, but I wasn’t yet.  Fifteen drivers had not yet looked up from their phones to the green arrow.  Patience is a virtue, and Instagram can’t wait.

Crunch!  “Was that my car?” I think as a I look in the mirror.  Panicked and guilty eyes greet mine.  “Steer it and clear it,” I tell myself, “but do they even have that rule in Alaska?”  I have my CDL in the 49th state, but I can’t remember the accident protocol at all.  “I hope this guy has insurance,” I say out loud, hoping that the sound waves will influence reality.

I sheepishly parked by the median. I wave at the BMW behind me.  Over the scuffed bumper, he waves back.  Through the open window, a young voice pleads, “I’m fine, let’s pull into Walgreens.”  I nod in consent, and I immediately disobey.  The Sear’s parking lot is a safer choice.  I’m a professional driver. He’s obviously not safe. He can follow me.

“Should I call an officer?” I joked.

“No need, you clearly put it into reverse and backed into me,” my beanie-clad delay worser-joked.

I called my insurance agent right away.  “I am new to this state.  What do I need to do?”

The call with his insurance agent was more helpful.  Timothy was a young man who traveled with Paul. At the end of Paul’s life, he wrote letters to communicate with Tim over long distances.  My Timothy was working the late shift in a call center in Florida, and he was certifying that I wasn’t at fault.  Thanks Tim.  You’ve made the gecko proud.

And just like that, I caused marital discord.  The BMW wasn’t his.  Why was he driving his wife’s car?  Why a beanie with a concert t-shirt?  Now we were both late.  Neither of us planned on being delayed an hour in front of that broken down Sears.  Was his wife waiting?  I found myself happy he didn’t have a watch.  I knew how late we were.  My life demands my Timex.  As I passed the phone back to him, he puffed on his e-cigarette.

“Thanks for being so cool,” I grinned as I shook the driver’s hand.  I was out of body trying to be empathetic.

“I’m sorry.”

I breathed in Alaska’s sunlight.  I reflected on the accident, the insurance claim, the parking lot, the bent bumper, my upcoming appointment at the body shop, and my phone’s dying battery, and I kindly lied. “No problem.”

She wore a unicorn costume to her doom.  The crowd cheered.  The molten snow made everyone squint.  I defiantly stood over my neighbor’s soda.

In early April, Girdwood, Alaska hosts the annual Slush Cup.  Several dozen rider-swimmers take turns speeding down the bottom of the ski run toward a ramp.  The ramp launches them over an icy pond.  Alyeska Resort digs the pond just for the event.  A rider technically is successful if he or she can land a jump and water ski across the pond without getting wet.  Riders get extra points for outlandish costumes and tricks or crashes.

Back to the soda.  This year I went to the event as a bonus.  The purpose of my day was to hike out to a glacier, view it, and be awed.  Visiting the Slush Cup was a whim.  And this guy with ear buds and tribal tattoos was blocking my view of my whim.  I tried to empathize with him.  Of course he was just trying to be a good friend.  The soda bottle was meant to reserve a spot in the viewing area.  But my internal dialogue justified my encroachment, “The early bird gets the worm… A penny saved is a penny earned,” I told myself.  His soda habit will probably lead to diabetes.  I had encroached at dozens of concerts and festivals. I will encroach again.

What I learned is that Girdwood in general, and the Slush Cup in particular, has a reputation for hedonism.  Everyone just wants to have a good time. The word is revelry and less of debauchery.  Families come and friends meet up.  The festival vibe is in full swing.  And nothing is serious.

But then there is this guy.  Standing right in front of me.  He can’t be more than 5’10” but the slope of the hill is away from the ramp.  He is very slight, but I can’t see through him.  His ear buds come out and he turns around.

“Hey man, thanks for saving my spot.  I think I am gonna watch up on the hill.  We can see everything from up there.  You don’t need this anymore though.”  The “bro” who the soda was for has arrived.  To my embarrassment, he removes the soda from between my heels.  But I think, “Good, follow your bro.  Let me see.”

“I’m gonna stay and make sure I get a few good shots.”  My neighbor-obstacle will remain.  I look for his camera.  Is he hiding a camera with a fast shutter and a fancy lens?  He pulls out his phone and wobbles it at the bro.

The local radio DJ announces the next rider.  “The Jesus” is a local lift operator.  He doesn’t waver to slow down on his path toward the ramp.  His brown monk habit flaps and his floor length rosary clips against the snow.  The DJ jokes, “He can walk on water, but can he board?”  The Jesus kicks too high off the ramp.  I lose sight of him behind my neighbor.  The splash is drowned out by laughter and cheers.