Obituary of a Trail Runner

She ran a lot. Once an Eastern European cardiologist pulled her aside in the hospital corridor and asked in a low, Slavic tone “what are you running from?” It was on a run that she died when a mountain lion made a stealth attack. She stopped him with a whack to the nose but it was too late.

A big gash in her side bled rivers on the trail, further reddening the redwood fronds.

She was always on call so had her phone tucked in the thigh pocket of her glow-in-the dark Oiselle tights. Laying there alone, she grasped the phone and gasped “hey Siri, call 911”. To which Siri replied she could but didn’t think it worthwhile at this point but would she like to know which local funeral parlors ranked most highly on Yelp?

Her dog wanted to help but being a poodle only knew how to look good and burp in French. He curled up next to his bleeding running companion and laid his heavy head on her side that was still intact.

The guy with the yak walked by, averting his gaze, suspecting a trap. Despite her pleas he went on, leaving only a Patchouli dust cloud, not unlike Pigpen of Peanuts fame.

Her dog normally would’ve wanted to eat the yak but sensed his place was at her side. Her dog never lied about anything and preferred the beach or watching television to food. He would stay there forever, with her in the woods.

She never understood math as well as she would’ve liked. She enjoyed long bike rides but feared having a flat in the middle of nowhere and being too inept to fix it. She often joked around with her patients. She thrived on diagnostic puzzles. She did the New York Times Crossword each and every day.

As she breathed her last, the past flashed in the manner of a View Master from her 1970’s childhood, a frame with each pull of the lever. The time she first said goodbye to her Dad at age 5 in the cardiac care unit. Click. Her mother’s fingernails caressing her scalp. Click. First kiss under the viaduct. Click. Learning the names of the notes on the spinet piano in the church basement. Click. Making love, having children. Click. Pronouncing someone dead for the first time.

Who would pronounce her dead? Would yak guy come around again and shake his dreadlocked head then break his creepy silence to declare her demise to the world at large? She closed her eyes and hoped that would not be the case. She imagined being left to slowly decompose and some sunny afternoon a hiker finding her and dog in skeletal repose.

When she expired, her Apple Music Family Membership persisted. She had two unused credits on Audible.com. Her paycheck would be automatically deposited, with the unworked days paid as “other”, no category on the drop-down list on her Excel time card to precisely explain being bitten to death by a catamount.

She was married to her best friend. Her only regret as the air grew thin being never seeing him again.

She liked to practice piano in the dark pre-dawn hours. Her running preference in order:
1) Mad River Beach
2) The Community Forest
3) The Marsh.
She wanted to run ultramarathons, work less, and spend more time with her children. She never really liked talking on the phone.

Her death was not tragic and her life was complete. In lieu of flowers, show kindness to everyone, even the assholes. Send donations to Planned Parenthood in honor of the NRA. In lieu of a memorial, run on a trail you’ve never set foot on before and notice everything. If you must have a memorial, remember-no harps.

She died doing exactly what she loved. Her final request: don’t shoot the puma, who only wanted a taste of her trail-running bliss.