Cindy who I met via a work related cross functional team brainstorm project. Shooting the $hit following our final meeting Wednesday night, I told her about my upcoming Boot Camp adventure over my delicious and soon to be illegal adult beverage. She asked which one I was doing and when I told her (6am at Piedmont Park) she said something along the lines of “Oh yeah, I used to be an instructor for that one. I’m going back as a student in a couple of weeks.” If I didn’t kow better, I’d have guessed someone put her up to that and there was a wee camera in a beer tap a few feet away documenting me in all my gullible glory.

Alas, it’s reality, and we made a wager on who would be kicking who’s ass. I plan to win.

Annie who is a fellow Atlanta MetBlogger and I met last night at a social to get to know our co-authors. She’s tenacious and funny and has an eerily similar background including (but certainly not limited to) the desire to participate in a sprint triathlon. This is something that remains on my list of goals, even though I’d lost sight/interest/hope/inspiration for it well over a year ago. Leave it to the universe to deliver someone to help remind me where my path is.

I don’t know that I’ll be as ready as she (who is running 11 miles today, thankyouverymuch) by the time Lanier (in May) or Callaway (in June) roll around, but damn if I’m not going to try.

Here goes nothin’, kids. You, me, friends in unexpected places and the universe givin’ me a good swift kick in my ever growing behind.

There was a near endless string of nights I’d wait until the dark crept over the rooftops to strap on my running shoes and headphones in preparation for setting out on her streets. Nearly invisible as I thudded on the buckled sidewalks and ducked under overgrown tree limbs, I’d revel in the living that swooshed past/around/next to/nearly on top of me. Young couples in the early stages of what could be love, groups of men finding their identities and alcohol ingestion boundaries, the neighborhood character spottings and my personal game of BINGO that went with them. Noting the new graffiti or shops opening/closing or a broken fire hydrant or damage from a recent rain. The memorization of the lights and the ideal spot to cross the street to avoid being stuck at a red – all these things made her uniquely mine. No one else saw her exactly the same way I did.

I miss living in her belly.

Footnote/linkage love re BINGO: B and I, never wrote about NG or O

It’s just as well. It’s been too long since my legs were properly stretched in the early light, when bugs are exhausted and confused enough to fly smack into my face. Too long since I soaked all three layers with evidence of my adventure, since my thighs burned with the pleasure of a run, since I practiced the mastery of the just-right lace tension on the sneaks and just the right balance of the ear bud jam into the side of my noggin.

The Silver Comet taunts me. She’s long and slim lovely and perfectly smooth, but I have to drive to visit her and it makes me feel like I’m pulling the classic asshole move from LA Story. You know the one. Still, she waits for me and she welcomes my eager feet and my disjointed cadence while I struggle to find my groove again.

I’ve missed the pounding of my feet and my breath, and there’s nothing quite like that shock to the body at 7am on a Saturday to prime you for an incredible day and to set the tone for a weekend with an open heart.

An Indy Craft Fair, a lunch date with myself and yet another trashy detective novel at an old favorite haunt, a pile of friends cycling the same trail and finishing it with a BBQ? The only thing that could have made it better would have been drinks and dinner with my beau and an ice cream cone by a fountain on a warm night (followed by a FUH2 moment for J)…but I had those, too. Pictures here.

Here’s to running and riding and art and friends and love, and for that perfect moment where they all mix and explode in your chest.

This concludes your hippie love-in entry for the day.

There are days that a 3 mile loop and 350 feet can heal me.

Like many other athletes who know the positive impact a little potassium can have on breaking up the lactic acid that causes sore muscles, I reached for a banana. Then I cut it up, put it on vanilla ice cream and slathered it with chocolate syrup.

What?