Six big, fat and slow miles (and lovin' every minute)

Guess what I'm doing again?

Hello, Brooks! Did you miss me?

Yep, I started running this past weekend. I was excited, and I was scared, too, because I didn't know how my foot would hold up or how I would hold up, either. I hadn't run for eight weeks. I knew it wouldn't be easy.

It wasn't. My first run was three miles over the Coastal Trail, and every single step clunked. My form was off. My pacing was a mess. It wasn't pretty. And I was really, really slow. Believe it or not, it hurt almost the whole way. Even though I had been working out, swimming and even lifting weights, my running muscles had been sadly neglected.

But I ran three miles without stopping once. I cried when I strapped on my Garmin and I cried a good part of the run, too. I breathed hard and snot ran down my nose and I was a mess and still I rejoiced because it  was as if I were reconnecting with an essential part of myself, as if something in my body was saying, "Yes, yes, I remember this."




Slow, but who cares. Any run is a good run, especially after eight weeks.

I came home, iced my foot, and headed out the next day, this time for six very slow miles. The sun shone and the leaving were just beginning to turn and it was beautiful and crisp. I might have cried a little bit on this run, too.

See the snow covered mountains in the background? Yep, winter is coming.

And then yesterday I headed out again and everything fell in  place. My pace flowed. My legs felt strong and capable. I rocked the run, at least rocked it as well as one can expect to rock after a long absence. It. Was. Beautiful.

Today I'm not running, and I'm not running tomorrow, either. In fact, I probably won't run until Friday or Saturday. I have a rather, um, intense personality and I'm fighting like crazy to not do anything stupid like fire out a 10 or 12 mile run and re-injuring my foot.
Patience, they say, is a virtue. And so I shall be virtuous.

In the meantime, I've been writing like mad to get my second novel finished. And the apples on our tree have turned the most beautiful, vivid red and I'm aching to pick them and cook up some type of odd yet wonderful dessert. If anyone has any recipes for very small, very red apples, please feel free to share. Thanks! (Apple cinnamon rolls, Karen??)

Aren't they beautiful?

I'm also spending a lot of time with this guy:

Icelandic author Bergsveinn Birgisson (please don't ask me to pronounce his name, though I think it sounds quite lovely). I highly recommend "Reply to a Letter from Helga."

And I'm almost finished with Kevin Brennan's "Our Children Are Not Our Children," a collection of short shorts.

Anyone out there on Goodreads? If so, don't hesitate to friend me here: I'd love to connect about books and get your recommendations and reviews.

Cheers and happy running, hiking and reading.