Treadmill? We don’t need no stinkin’ treadmill.
It’s windy and cold and there’s just enough of a mist that running without a jacket means getting wet, and running with one means getting wet anyhow, from sweating. Being a sissy, I pull on the Marmot and head out.
I’m running the Cole Park loop, my new home. It’s the perfect route. Half-mile trail, half-mile asphalt, half-mile sidewalk. OK, it’s one-third the perfect route. One steep uphill and a long gradual descent and the rest is flat. But it’s got bathrooms and a skateboard park and a whale and crashing waves. All you could ask for in a run. And no roots.
I’m out for my first decent run after Rocky. It was a hard week inside my head and I’m happy to put it behind me. Just an easy run on the home course.
Nothing much happens. The lousy weather means I’ve got the place to myself. The phone lady yells splits at me. I’ve got to figure out a way to give her an exotic accent or an alternative language or something. She’s sort of annoying.
I just run. No fireworks, no excitement, no spiritual awakenings. Somedays, running is just running. Which is pretty damn great.
Three miles goes by quickly. Maybe I won’t quit forever after all.
I stop at the store on the way home and run into the artist who made our Rocky Raccoon trophies. She’s thrilled that the guys liked them. Funny how worlds intersect.
I buy Mo some chocolate-covered strawberries so that if I screw up Valentine’s Day completely, at least I did something. I help her eat them. I’m a good person.
I come home damp and tired and happy. I love running.
Only three hundred and something days till Rocky …