That Wascally Wabbit
An odd theme has surfaced in my photo / running life lately (I link those two adjectives because I don't always separate them in my mind). I'm hoping I'm seeing rabbits because I'm getting as fast as one. Is that's what's hoppening?
I've had two bunny encounters recently, one when I was on a rainy run and and one when I ended a run in the middle of an Easter egg hunt. (A picture of the latter didn't end up in this space but can be seen in my Facebook wall photos. Please do friend me. Eek, I used "friend" as a verb.) Last night I had a bunny encounter of the third kind.
It started when after work I went up the hill to Piedmont High, expecting to run track again with the Tuesday night gang just as I did last week. Before we could run a step, however, we were told the track was closed because a championship lacrosse game was about to begin. Someone (me, I think) suggested running down the hill to Lake Merritt and formatting our speed work in a linear rather than an oval-shaped configuration. So off we went. The pack soon left me behind, but I did my workout and had a great time anyway (two minutes fast, two minutes recovery, two minutes fast, two minutes recovery... rinse and repeat five times, puff puff).
All well and good, and it was--until it came time to run back up the hill to retrieve my car from where I'd parked it, near the high school track.
Were mind and body so spent that I hallucinated these bunnies onto this wall? You tell me.
A word about being left behind by the pack. I am not being self-deprecating when I say I am the slowest runner in the group; it is just true. I'm at least ten years older than the second-to-the-oldest runner--plus, I was never notably fast even when I was younger. It truly is not a big deal to me. I feel so grateful to be out and loping along and to count myself as a team member and a recognizable runner in the eyes of both the active and the sedentary population. Especially since my nightmare encounter a year ago with the world of pain pills, crutches, and handicap seating on public transportation, I consistently feel that any run I do, fast or slow, is incredibly precious. I cannot turn back the clock. I cannot exchange my slow-twitch muscle fibers for fast. All I can do is be grateful to be who I am and to have all that I have and to run and not crawl.
Speaking of all I have--watch this seamless segue--my Mother's Day was made by receiving identical cards from my son the producer and my son the doctor. They swear they acted independently and I believe them. Great minds think alike.
I've had two bunny encounters recently, one when I was on a rainy run and and one when I ended a run in the middle of an Easter egg hunt. (A picture of the latter didn't end up in this space but can be seen in my Facebook wall photos. Please do friend me. Eek, I used "friend" as a verb.) Last night I had a bunny encounter of the third kind.
It started when after work I went up the hill to Piedmont High, expecting to run track again with the Tuesday night gang just as I did last week. Before we could run a step, however, we were told the track was closed because a championship lacrosse game was about to begin. Someone (me, I think) suggested running down the hill to Lake Merritt and formatting our speed work in a linear rather than an oval-shaped configuration. So off we went. The pack soon left me behind, but I did my workout and had a great time anyway (two minutes fast, two minutes recovery, two minutes fast, two minutes recovery... rinse and repeat five times, puff puff).
All well and good, and it was--until it came time to run back up the hill to retrieve my car from where I'd parked it, near the high school track.
Were mind and body so spent that I hallucinated these bunnies onto this wall? You tell me.A word about being left behind by the pack. I am not being self-deprecating when I say I am the slowest runner in the group; it is just true. I'm at least ten years older than the second-to-the-oldest runner--plus, I was never notably fast even when I was younger. It truly is not a big deal to me. I feel so grateful to be out and loping along and to count myself as a team member and a recognizable runner in the eyes of both the active and the sedentary population. Especially since my nightmare encounter a year ago with the world of pain pills, crutches, and handicap seating on public transportation, I consistently feel that any run I do, fast or slow, is incredibly precious. I cannot turn back the clock. I cannot exchange my slow-twitch muscle fibers for fast. All I can do is be grateful to be who I am and to have all that I have and to run and not crawl.
Speaking of all I have--watch this seamless segue--my Mother's Day was made by receiving identical cards from my son the producer and my son the doctor. They swear they acted independently and I believe them. Great minds think alike.
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