As long as I’m going to jog as a means of staving off poor fitness (to be perfectly clear: I would prefer not to), my satel-lited path may as well produce an apparition of something running faster than I can, like this outline of a Mooninite (Err) trucking through our subdivision. What an impressively high kick! This is joggraphy, the earth-writing counterpart to sky writing, which has been in decline with environmental concerns about contrails bouncing the sun’s heat, about pollution, about the impermanence of words written in smoke and vapor. Satellite assisted, telephonetic earth-writing: probably somebody has already created profound body of work adopting an aesthetic more sophisticated than this one. For even though I am artistically satisfied (to the point of resting for several consecutive days) with the Sprinting Err, my next even bigger jog will be of a slow, aging former athlete hunched over and wincing as he peels blood- and sweat-soaked socks from blistering, cracked feet.

And: I’m tempted to qualify the time and pace shown above. It’s pretty close to my usual pace, which is, of course, an unusual pace insofar as it often includes a mile with Yoki (who must be pulled along and who is a laggardly beast of burden past one mile), interruptions to allow Y. to do what tired dogs do to take “breaks” along the first leg of the route, and a parkour-like digression in front of Mr. Dogcrap’s house. He’s the one whose sidewalk is, shall I say, littered. Saturday’s run, screen-capped above, was a full family outing, meaning D. and I took turns pushing the jogging stroller (inside of which Is. drew figures with markers, paper, and a lapdesk; maybe she drew Mooninites). I realize that’s a lot of qualifying, considering I’m content with 10-minute miles.

Added: Apparently GPS writing is all the rage among Ayn Rand fans.