My new morning routine has me prowling the hills of our neighborhood in an eleventh-hour attempt to compress enough conditioning into my body such that I’ll be able to run a couple miles of the marathon on Sunday. Sadly, after over a year of passivity, there is no longer any glide in my stride. I feel like a four-cylinder mini-van full of passengers as I gasp and wheeze up the hills, and make my way around the confusing and circuitous roads. In my former life, I would breeze up and over the hills and worry not a bit about getting lost. After all, I could always tack another hour onto the run if I needed to get myself found. But now, I get a little panicky when I get turned around.
“How are you doing?,” said a dear friend at lunch today. “Pretty well, I guess,” I affirmed– and I meant it. But an hour later, I was in the middle of Trader Joe’s — which is, I have to say, an exceedingly happy place indeed: small size, pure food, short lines, and basically only one brand from which to choose. But halfway through the aisles, I was overwhelmed by a sudden sadness so deep that my knees weakened a little as I choked back tears. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was, but I knew that I wanted to leave immediately, rush home, and hug my girls.
So maybe my metaphor needs some refinement: I’m an overburdened, underpowered mini-van with only one gallon of gas in the tank.
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hang in there, buddy. the Ferrari that burns Nitro fuel is still inside you. Brad
wishing we could fill your tank and lighten your load……please hug your girls for us, too.
and the photos are lovely. miss you all.