Meditations from a warm, spring run


For more than four hours today I got to be a runner.

Up hills.

Down hills.

Eyeing Manhattan from the George Washington Bridge.

Over a bridge.

Through a tunnel.

When I was a runner I couldn’t be anything else. Those emails had to wait. Those stresses dogging me all week would be there for later. I was busy because, in those moments, I was just running.

I was just being. And it was beautiful.


The tree canopy hung a thick, warm blanket of air over me as I entered Palisades Interstate Park, some eight miles into the run.

Sometime during those steps across dirt trails, down stone steps and to rock overlooks, I felt at home. The trails had welcomed me.

“He wondered whether home was a thing that happened to a place after a while, or if it was something that you found, in the end, if you simply walked and waiting and willed it long enough.” — Neil Gaiman in “American Gods.”

I plopped down on a rock, dangling my feet above the Hudson River. It felt good to rest, 15 miles of tired already accumulated on my legs.

A Canada goose waded over to keep me company as I sucked down water in big gulps and tried to take my time to enjoy a Clif Bar.

Our conversation was mostly small talk.

He paddled away.

And I ran home.

Total Distance: 26.5 mi. | Elevation Gain: 3,379 ft.


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