SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Sunday, Mar. 27, 2011 @ 11:52 am
Running



First run of the year. Whiskeytown in my discman, so that's where it's been all winter.

The snow on the roads has melted out beyond the dirt shoulder. I start out slowly, my shoes feel familiar and good, the weight of my discman in my right hand, ponytail pulled through the back of my old salty Chicaco Cubs hat. I run on the left facing traffic, diesel pickups don't ease over, intimidating me - anyone - who might want to be healthy in this city.

Roadside trash, melting out of the snowbanks. Here and there, and increasing to post-parade levels at the entrance to the trailer park.

I fall into my remembered pace, the same songs starting and ending at the same points on my route. When the grade gives way, I pick it up, and by the time I'm down near the river, I'm out of body, limbs numb, lungs burning, high on endorphins. I love this feeling.

The road swings around, and instead of falling back into my pace, I keep pushing. I am not soft from the winter. I am stronger, and soon I am further along when the next song begins, and I am back by the trailer park, and I have pulled my tights up above my knees into shorts. The sun reflecting off my blue-white legs, cool wind around my knees, dust blowing off the road, dry brown grasses matted from the winter's weight of snow.

It's a new season here. The snow is still waist-deep in the yard, and there's not a crocus that's dared push towards zenith, but I know that it's changed because I can once again run.


Roots | Shoots