This last weekend another race came to fruition. It's always slightly surreal when I have to go do a run, or triathlon, or hike, or some sort of physical activity I signed up for online in a haze of enthusiasm. It's a mix of anxiousness, thrill, pride, and sleepiness. It's sour/sweet candy that always ends sweet. Why do I doubt?
So yesterday, longtime childhood buddy bud Tiff and I absentmindedly joined the jog/walk group instead of the run group. I mean, run? Like sprint the entire time? If they have a jogging option that must be where we fit in since we're not professionals and want to be able to stop for pictures atop the the San Diego Bay Bridge that leads to the idyllic island of Coronado... I also like to call this magical isle adult Disneyland and prance around like I'm Dorothy in Oz. Whatever your inspiration, L. Frank Baum, it fits.
We were stuck. Caught between zillions of walkers. Who were all these people? Go back to your couches, America! Let me have some room to run without feeling like I'm doing the annual PE obstacle course test. You're only burning like eight calories every half mile. At least make it count. You came all the way out here! Ope, but wait, not too fast, I don't want to feel slow myself...
Once we relaxed into the walking lifestyle, and began burning by chattering about military life (a real Navy SEAL bride joined us on our jaunt, and Tiff is a Navy wife herself), before we knew it we were walking at a sharp slant, angling up the bridge onramp to begin our climb to the pinnacle, a spot breath-cathingly high even for daredevils, and prime real estate for suicide seekers.