I told you it was a wormhole. I said, That’s a wormhole and you didn’t believe me, not either one of you. Nobody EVER believes me about the wormholes.

Steve was mad.

As I picked cactus needles out of my arm and left butt cheek, I said back that he’d just have to excuse the helloutofme if I didn’t believe him about the wormholes right off, on account of Star Trek wasn’t a reference point for me really, that I didn’t realize all this time Folsom had its own little rip in the seam of the space-time continuum, or that I’d been passing it by on countless runs around Lake Natimba. It’s not something I ever once saw even guessed at and it’s most definitely not in any of the tourist literature I’ve seen. Being as he is the repository of all bankable information and a resident of Folsom to boot, you’d think Bill would have mentioned such, I said. Anyway, it wasn’t me who pushed the button that looked for all the world like every other crosswalk button, excepting maybe for the little sign above it which said The Great Folsom Wormhole. I thought that’d be graffiti, but even still I didn’t push it and of course Steve didn’t push it. It was Anthony who pushed it; Anthony who said this looks like it might be fun when he did it. One moment we were four miles into our Christmas Eve run, shuffling in place at a crosswalk on Riley Street in Folsom, CA, and the next we were not. Anthony’s fault. He’s a cop. Damn cop training. Totally inadequate for wormhole problems.

Himself was standing dropjawed and incredulous next to the cactus I had just careened off, beprickled. I think the weight of what had just happened was setting heavy on him, or at least his arm anyway, on account of he could only lift it part ways up as he was speechlessly pointing to the thing assembled in front of us. It was anemic pointing, like the intent to point was so full, it overwhelmed the actual pointing, allowing only a limp gesture in the direction of what appeared to be a large portion of the army of Antonio de Padua María Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón. There wasn’t a sign or anything identifying it as Santa Anna’s army, but I suspected it, and when Steve said that while he’d never seen General Santa Anna’s army in person, he’d always imagined that it’d look like the dusty thing marching a ways off in front of us, I figured we’d both of us hit upon the very fact of the matter. About this time, Anthony’s jaw started working again and he said Duck. I said What, and he said Duck again. I started to say something about cacti, deserts, that Gila Monster over there on that rock and no water fowl that I could see at all, but Steve interrupted me with a smack on the back of the head and an instruction to Duck, as in get down out of sight of Santa Anna’s army.

It was too late, though. Six horses peeled off the main group and headed our way. I said Run, but we were slow getting our gear together and they caught up with us and said something in Spanish I did not understand. Anthony said it wasn’t friendly what they said and I said I didn’t know you spoke Spanish, Anthony, and he said he didn’t speak Spanish as recent as this morning, but there you have it: Wormholes. I looked over at Steve and asked if he spoke Spanish suddenly and he said No, but had an unexpected sense of Dutch and also a smattering of Cantonese. I was beginning to feel left out, linguistically speaking. Damn wormholes.

One of the riders got off his mount and disturbed a snake as he came around towards us, which caused him to stumble over a rock and in turn, spook his horse. The horse reared up and came again down, the rider stooped upon the ground as though gathering himself in a final prayer before his head was stove in by a shod hoof. We looked down in gory amazement and his companions looked down in gory amazement, and we all just stood there in gristly, boney speechlessness. Someone from the main body of the army must have seen the man on the ground and came over to investigate, saw the breached head and nodding towards us, asked something of his fellows which alarmed Anthony. He’s asking if we squished the head. Steve started to say something in Dutch I think, but Anthony told him not to say anything in Dutch just now. The 19th century Mexican fellows were talking amongst themselves and I could tell by the look on Anthony’s face that this was headed in a direction not favorable to us. Anthony was translating for us sotto voce and I looked at Steve and saw him mouthing the words quietly to himself in Dutch. They’re saying they didn’t see exactly what happened, but they’re certain we could have prevented it and now his wife is a widow. Now they’re saying it was his birthday and he’d never get to have that cake they’d all made for him and were going to surprise him with tonight after they made camp. It was also his twelve children’s birthday. Now they’re saying we practically willed it to happen and that he was a godly man, very observant of the sacraments and it is also his grieving, forlorn widow’s birthday. We trained the snake with black magic, the widow is pregnant and has gone into labor, the baby will be born today, fatherless. We are bastards in league with the Devil. They’re saying we need to come up with a birthday gift for the widow and orphans. Steve said Ooh ooh I know I have just the thing and handed over a packet of GU, which it turns out is pronounced the same in Dutch as it is in Spanish. They said thanks for the GU, but it makes them gag, and anyway they think the dead man would want them to hang us. Well, this day has turned to crap, hasn’t it? My wife has always feared I would come to some harm out on a run, but I don’t think even she’d worried about a vengeful 19th century Mexican army.

We got shackled pretty quick after that because we were in a desert and there weren’t any trees suitable for hanging. There was a horse at one end of a rope and us three at the other. We were to be dragged along to San Antonio to this Alamo gig they had going and we were instructed to think long and hard about the dead man’s widow and his children on this, everyone’s birthday. So, we got to talking about things and Steve pointed out to me that it was a shame to be executed, an awful shame, but that looking on the brightside, I had always wanted to run Badwater before I died and this was probably very much like that experience. Anthony added something about being careful what you wished for. Steve told Anthony to shut up because it wasn’t him or me who’d pushed the button so clearly labeled a wormhole. I asked Steve if he knew if wormholes were a common thing at all, like maybe we’d see another between us and any trees and he thought maybe if we were lucky.

We were lucky, but Steve’s Dutch came in handy, because just about three hours into our desert march, Anthony said Look up there, and we looked. We saw the great Rio Grande stretching out majestically in front of us, and Steve said in Dutch Ooooh, that’s pretty. Anthony said No, not the river. THAT. What that was, was another crosswalk complete with a button, which one of Santa Anna’s aides de camp pushed and Boombobsyeruncle we were all of us—Santa Anna as well as his entire army and the three of us—standing in 17th century Netherlands; the town of Delft, to be exact. To be more exact, all huddled quite cramped against a door, which broke from the weight of us, and we spilled into the studio of the great Dutch master, Johannes Vermeer. We got up and let me tell you, Santa Anna lit into his aide de camp big time. Anthony said the general was angry about having told him a thousand times if he’d told him once not to push any crosswalk buttons labeled “El Wormhole” and also that no one ever believed him about the wormholes. As he was ranting, Vermeer was working up a bit of steam himself, which Steve translated and said was a general rant about impolite armies disturbing his artistic greatness on this, his birthday, and if it wasn’t Napoleon or Alexander, it was freaking Santa Anna, and himself having just cleared out Hitler from the cupboard only this morning, it was a wonder he had any time to paint. Steve asked him if he’d killed Hitler at all, and Vermeer said he’d only managed to poke him in the eye with a paintbrush, but that he was sure it would get a nasty infection what with 17th century Dutch sanitation being what it was, and that was the best he could do. Hitler was a problem belonging to anther century. Steve said something then which got Vermeer angry and the painter rang a bell. A moment later, his maid came in the door with a crosswalk button which said, “Der Vermhol” and I didn’t ask anyone, I just pushed it.

There we were, mid-stride, crossing the old iron footbridge in Folsom. Anthony said See I told you that would be fun and Steve punched him, but we got all settled down again and I said I don’t think a body will ever believe where we got these, raising my shackles which were loose around my bony wrists. Steve said No I don’t think they will and Anthony said he’d get fired right off if he breathed a word at all. I said as I tossed my shackles over the bridge and into the river below, I like running and I think I’ll just do that all the way back to the car and they agreed.

About 10 minutes later, we were rounding a corner and heard the gals coming the other way, as had been the plan all along. They were whispering, and Jewel was saying to Sarah something about Joan of Arc’s birthday, but she didn’t get far because Sarah looked up and saw us coming the other way and shushed Jewel real quick, said Get rid of it. Jewel looked up and when she saw us, she quickly tossed something in the bushes along the trail and for just a moment I thought it looked like a lady’s broadsword.

As we passed them by, we confirmed coffee after the run was over and Steve said Just so you know the crosswalk button up on Riley’s broken, and Sarah said back That’s funny, the one by Negro Bar is broken too, so I wouldn’t bother pressing it, okay? We said all three of us that was fine and that we were just as happy to wait for the traffic.

About 12 miles, give or take a few centuries.