The ice fog returned today, and if anything, it was worse. I couldn't even see myself in the mirror-it was that thick. If ice fog were a recent political figure, it would be Dick Cheney. And if it were a fruit, it would be a pomegranate. Therefore, it follows logically that, if Dick Cheney were a fruit, he would be a pomegranate: you practically have to crack him open with a hammer to get anything out of him, and once you do, what you get is seedy and bitter. If there is truly no rest for the wicked, then Cheney and pomegranates will be awake forever.
What the heck does that have to do with running? Nothing. I'm just covering familiar ground until I can remember what I meant by the title of today's entry. Ok. Now I've got it. Here I go:
Despite the above-mentioned atmospheric apocalypse, I had a fantastic run this morning. I had to get up much earlier than normal, and was out the door by 5a.m. I wasn't groggy, though, I was ready. As soon as I got going up the hill behind our apartment building, I could tell that my breathing and my legs were in sync. I had already found the right rhythm, and as soon as my left knee loosened up, I would probably be able to pick up the pace, without losing "the flow."
Such would indeed be the case. The first mile was slow, as usual, but as the second mile went downhill, I leaned into it and just started rolling. All I could hear were my own steps, unobstructed by car noise. I moved down the black strip of asphalt between the white snowbanks without concern for traffic, unseen by anyone but my fellow running rodents, the rabbits and squirrels.
The air was mountain-top clean, and seaside moist. It was just the perfect combination of coolness and humidity for me. I didn't stop once for traffic, which is always great for an urban runner. I finished my six miles in 48:47, and still got home in time to help wake my sweet, sleepy wife. It was a perfect start to my day.
Thanks for humoring me.
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