We're Hardcore

When I first moved to Htown, my new-ish habitation, it was summer. I was struck by how many of the residents are runners. They run alone, in packs, with their dogs, you name it. In Gtown, my previous place of residence, I was a complete and total freak for running. The neighbors would gawk at me as I went by, often with their huge beer guts flapping in the breeze.

My new, more enlightened neighbors, however, have turned out to be wimps. As the weather grew colder, the numbers of runners grew smaller and smaller. Now, in February, there we are down to three.

I wake up at 6am, and often when I look out my window I see a lone figure, a man, running down the middle of the street in the dark. When I start my run around 6:30, the neighborhood is quiet. But I always look for the woman I think of as my mirror image: a tall, blond, 30-something woman, who I pass at approximately the same place during each run. That’s the three of us.

This morning I woke up to find an inch of snow on the ground. I bundled up and headed out for my run. I could see the distinct footprints in the middle of the street of the man who runs even earlier than I do. And as I passed the halfway point of my run, I passed my mirror image. We both waved – and laughed at each other, because there we were, bundled head to toe, running in the street on an inch of new snow, in temperatures of no more than 15 degrees. Everyone else was home in bed. We felt lucky, and happy.