I just scheduled a Meetup for the Out Run CF Virtual Race, so if you are in San Diego, come join us, and we can all race virtually together. If you haven't registered yet, there is still time (you can run wherever you want and as long or short as you want) and you get this beautiful t-shirt modeled by my technical wife (sorry, technical t-shirt modeled by my beautiful wife).
I want these shoes. I haven't bought new trail shoes in awhile and I don't really need new shoes, but I really want these. I have been switching between my Adidas Adizero XTs, my La Sportiva Crosslites, and my New Balance 100s for the last couple of years. So, come March, I'm picking some of these up.
I have been using this site called 750words.com as a private journal; stuff that I usually don't share, but I wrote something today about some thoughts going through my head on a recent run, and wanted to share it here.
This is the way, as my head pounds and my breath clouds the sharp morning air, running alone on the wide trail with room for more, this isn't the worst day.
The worst day was hill repeats with nicotine-stained lungs and coughing tar. The warm-up was one block from my couch to the gently sloping road that looked, at the time, like a ramp that led all the way up to hell. That wasn't the good hurt of lactic acid burning legs, that was the searing birth of new capillaries, muscles and habit.
It's not the best day either. There are a lot of best days, but this isn't one of them. That run with my uncle, showing up to my house after school to run through the suburban streets. He would ask me how I was doing, ask how I was handling everything with the divorce. The uncle who picked me up one morning at 5 AM so we could drive up to San Juan Capistrano and run a 10K together, I saw him behind me at the turnaround, cheering. He smiled and hugged me at the finish, saying he was proud, and having no idea how much that meant to me.
I run down the empty trail, telling myself that this is the way to go, to the soft edge of the world. The edge of slipping rocks and dust clouds that cover sliding feet, not looking over, not looking down into the sun, with hands tightly gripping the sharp bones and stretched skin as we try not to fall.