Day 47: Ode

I miss the taut muscles of summer, sleekly knitting under my skin. I am wintertime blubber and jiggle today. Puffy arms that rub awkwardly against bra straps and chafe. Loose thighs clapping together like old friends. I miss waking up to pull on running clothes, often slightly musty, worn twice, and opening the door to chilled morning air — the best breathing of the day, fresh like rain and cleared of smog. Sometimes I’d job with my iPod, earpieces in, switched off, especially on a Sunday when the world still sleeps. The smooth, paced sound of footballs on pavement,t hen up the hill to gravel, across the crick to grass, through the retirement neighborhood on tarred streets void of sidewalks and then back to pavement rushing by as I swoop downt he hill home. I plotted out these routes on the web, calculating through aerial views, how far and how fast. Each morning I start with a place in mind — water plays a part in each destination —, and run toward it. park. The old horse trail. That wide street with mountain views. The man-made waterfall. And when I get there, I smile, admire and heat home, feeling my lungs expand, my lengthening legs. I love running in the summer.