Skip to main content


I signed myself out of the dorm apartment.
I didn't want to be there (my roommates didn't like me)
and their displeasure
left a film on my skin
I could never seem to wash off.

Still, I had to sign myself out from the apartment I was paying to "live in."
"Jennilyn Fisher. Thursday-Monday."
May as well clear out a few days.
Where was I going?
That should do it.

I didn't know where I was going, or when I'd be back between classes and work.
Fortunately I had a bike,
a few dollars,
a backpack.

That's all I needed, anyways.

I was only 17. Barely 17, actually,
a fact I tried to hide when I met other college students.
I didn't want to explain.
I hated explaining.

I pedaled hard to class. I had an old steel mountain bike. It was heavy and stiff, but it had gears and brakes and we got around.
I left it unlocked and hurried to class.
No one would steal a heavy kids bike.

I couldn't pay attention
not that I needed to listen, the grades were easy.
Attending class was a priority
because it gave me a sense of purpose,
and participating
(when I had the nerve, or
when I was forced to read from my papers to the class)
gave me... a temporary sense of
what was it?
equality? No...


Where to go?
Couldn't go back to the apartment. No.
Then where?
I could go to the Blacks.
Sherrie loved me; she wanted me to date her sons.
She wanted me as a daughter,
and using their home left me feeling guilty.
I just wanted dinner and a place of refuge.

There was a state park, the bushes tall beside the river.
Late night college bonfires would be noisy,
but the noise made me feel safe.
Or I could ride to the sandbar... so I could swim.
Float on my back, and pretend I was everywhere,
pretend I was no where.
But the sandbar wasn't a safe place at night.

There was always the old broken dam
where high school students and
college dropouts gathered
swapped drugs and
poured gasoline into tires,
lighting them on fire, and spun them down concrete.
Laughing, dangerous-
I don't think they knew
what was funny
or dangerous.
They were harmless really,
always nice to the quiet girl who came
and sat away from them,
watching them,

But that night,
I needed space
so massive
it was claustrophobic
and safe.
Where the land around
was wide, and wild, and free
and where silence had a taste.

The farm roads.

Black rolling asphalt,
Occasional silos,
that's what they call those funny corrugated buildings.
Sometimes I'd stumble upon a good irrigation ditch.
My favorite ditch was 8 miles away, it had a rope swing.
A young girl needs a good rope swing.

Lots of fields, lost in fields.
None of the roads had a name.
'A rose by any other name...'

The sky was so blue and broad it reached down below my tires.
I wished I could run, but I didn't know how.
My feet couldn't take me as far as the wheels could,
and far was what I needed.

For $0.85 I bought a mini loaf of corn bread and honey butter.
The can of green beans polished off a perfect dinner.

Maybe I'd just sleep here, doze and watch the stars come out.
Read poetry and let the words mix into dreams,
let the stars blur into a blanket around me
the mound of dirt behind the potato cellar
shaped into a pillow for my head.

I could wake up and bike back in the dark.
My roommates would be asleep then,
I could shower, pack for work, sleep a bit more,
and be to the gym before 6am.

my tires took me into the fields


Popular posts from this blog

a new year; a wasatch akitu

“Think now history has many cunning passages, contrived corridors, and issues, deceives with whispering ambitions, guides us by vanities. …The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours.”
another new year startled us today. somewhere between the late night meandering into a warm bed, after the clock already struck a replayed chime marking the change of calendar (for, we can DVR the change of year and play it in every time zone,) and after the morning coffee, sunrise, prayers, or routines—the time has changed, and so have we.
the Wasatch is a flurry, the new recreational pursuits settling into it as the heavy snow settles onto it. it has been a dense year of both snow and increased use of the snow.
although this mountain range sits above a major metropolitan area, it retains pockets of wild refuge still hidden from its’ own mountain refugees. these pockets of frozen time are still filled with change. no man steps into the same Wasatch twice, for it is not the same Wasatch, nor is it the…

Deadhorse 50k - the prose of race day thoughts

It was Friday, and I was driving south to meet a dear friend who was going to accompany me to the Deadhorse 50k race the following day. I left work and drove straight towards our meeting spot, the snowy wasatch skirted by golden brown foothills on my left, with foothills of similar caliber on my right.

Further south there was something rising from the hills on my right. There wasn't a stream or river to provide fog, was this dust? I tried to look for signs of wind; there was none.  Was this smoke? But the foothills were neither blackened nor glowing. Preoccupied with this strange phenomenon, I focused in as I approached the strange hills. The evening winter light was striking these hills directly, perhaps for the first time that day... and then I realized I was witnessing a rising water vapor, 'breath,' similar to seeing one's breath on a cold day.
The hills where breathing, sighing. Although I'd driven beside these hills countless times, and run across similar at …

that WEIGHTY issue

It's been said to us climbers that what we do is dangerous, and irresponsible. How could we risk our lives like this? And distance trail running, if it compromises our health why do it? How dare we take that time away from our families? And yet, to even make mention about a different lifestyle, one of weight, obesity, and all of the very dangerous and risky components it involves is socially disgraceful, insensitive, and cruel. I bring this up only to show how much weight, in general, is not "ok" to talk about. It's a sensitive subject, even, no, especially, for those of us already at a healthy weight who use our bodies to their fullest daily...

Now, this blog is about running, ain't it? Yep. So while there's a lot of "weight" we could cover in this "weighty" area, we'll just go over one. Running.
Running and weight are intertwined. I'd like to say that this post is primarily for the ladies, because we typically store more weight t…