The running has begun. As I mentioned ever so briefly in the last post, I'm running again but this time with a group. I am not really a runner, I just don't want to go on and on about the decline of my body as it ages. I'd rather do something about it than complain about it, though I'm not entirely an anti-complainer either. I can find plenty to moan and groan about. The cold, for example.
If the overpasses have turned to ice and I sit spinning in my car as it glides over, then yes, you will find me complaining about the cold. I spun out of control going over the Hancock Street overpass on Saturday morning. I thought to myself, "This could end badly," yet I was preternaturally calm. It ended well, but I still stay away from that bridge if I can help it, even when there is no chance of ice.
Everything is grey and cold in the morning. The birds, wild and domestic, cluster a bit closer than is customary. I wear a long sleeve running shirt and a lightly quilted jacket. A headband, no gloves. There are very few people signed up for the 9 a.m. group. The five of us stretch and head out. It's okay. I'm not crazy about it. I like running alone, I simply do not have the discipline to get up and out three times a week so I am using this group as a tool for 8-weeks. Maybe by the end I'll like it more. The important thing is that I've nearly made it through week one.
I like the sound that the granite makes beneath my shoes when I run on the trail near my house. I tune in to the rhythm of the group when I'm with others. My mind wanders more when I'm on my own. It's freer.
I was thinking about Ana's dinner yesterday. Would I make it on time? What would I bring? I left work a little later than expected and felt rushed. Walking into her house was a sweet relief from the stresses of the day. It was exactly where I wanted to be, with friends on a cold night laughing and drinking wine while dogs circled at our feet. The cold has its place. It brings us all a little closer than is customary.