As often happens here in western New York, the seasons have turned on a dime and now its SPRING, sunny and warm and breezy, at least this week. The sudden change got me out of my post-half-marathon-blues-followed-by-awful-GI-bug stupor and so I laced on my shoes and hit the road.
As sometimes happens, things got out of hand. I ran past my parents house to take in their paper and then was confronted with the leafy trails of Highland Park, right behind their house. Why not? my brain thought, breezing right by the ache in my ankles and the five pancakes I had 30 minutes before. The trail will be lovely.
And it is, warm but shaded with birds singing overhead. And hilly. Ah yes, I forgot that part, how this trail dips and rises over roots and leaves. The pancakes rumble and complain. Still, the trail isn’t that long and soon I am at the bottom of the hill. Confronted by this:
Ah well, at least there’s a banister. Up I go. The pancakes get angry and try to leave halfway up, but I am having none of it. I feel great and sore all together. I amble to the top of the small hill and look over the reservoir at the top of Highland Park.
The Lilac Festival has started which means that all the people who live in my parents’ neighborhood are complaining about their streets taken over by hordes of visitors. I think a two-weekend festival is a small price to pay for having a park as your backyard the other fifty weeks of the year, but maybe that’s just me.
Once I’m through the park I turn back along Mt Hope. My stomach has settled down and my calves have stretched out. I am running downhill, leaning forward and landing on the front of my feet so I feeling like I am bouncing down the incline. I swing by the apartment and Shizuka joins me for the last two miles to loop around the Freddie Sue bridge.
And just like that I’m done, but I feel like I’m pushed some poison out of my system. I am tired but loose and enjoying my endorphin rush. The hills and the hurt are behind me and I think it’s going to be a good day.