It’s nearly spring. The branches on the trees here have sprouted small green leaves, like the first whiskers on a 13-year-old boy. The air is still cold, but the first hint of warmth is creeping in. I’ve started looking at seed catalogs and weeding garden beds to plant peas and beans soon.
What does this mean? Just like most humans, we’re emerging into the sunshine. And if you are starting to hit middle age, like we are (and even writing that sentence feels strange), you throw your arms into the air and think, “Ow. I’m a little creaky.” Time to start exercising again.
Every other morning, I’ve been tieing up my shoes, stretching out my legs, and turning the music on the iPod. A kiss for our kid and one for Danny. Out the door.
By the time I hit the trail, the trees lined with moss to my left and right, I’m feeling a lot less stiff and a lot more alive.
And when I return home, sweaty and singing, I find that Danny has made me breakfast. Quinoa, tomatoes (from a hothouse in CA, an out-of-season splurge), avocadoes, and crisp bacon.
This running thing? I’ll take the threat of shin splints for that feeling in the forest and this breakfast.
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