Wish I could say it was a glorious affair. That the 35 minutes of jogging shook the slugs out of my quads and shins. That they, too, cleared the headaches of a tense workday, delayed trains, and then an even tenser rehearsal.
Alas, no. The legs are heavy and aching. The mind is still full. The hour is late and a pot of pasta boils on the stove for a snack. Sleep, as ever, doesn't come easy tonight even when all my cells collectively scream for it. And tomorrow is another long day.
Still glad I went, though.
Liked the foggy, moody Southie I found tonight. After the bacchanalia of St. Patrick's Day around here, it is a marvel to run first Broadway from one end to the other, then circle back on 3rd Street and for that last mile from Independence Square, street lights creating a tunnel to run through, not meet another pedestrian or moving car....
Until the final block before home: the moment where Southie reminded me I was dealing with Southie. The moment a car first honked once, then again, longer, then slowed down as it passed, passenger hanging out the window yelling, "What the f*** you doing? It's too late to be running. Go f*** yourself!"
It probably says something --what? who knows?--that his edict only made me smile, wryly. It was a tough day, and a tough run.
I can deal with the toughs.
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