There was a moment of elation. 4 miles in, the cold had mellowed as my blood warmed my body. My feet had odds aches. Still, I had settled into a brisk pace, each step was light, each stride had a little glide. The air was ice cold, inhales prickled my lungs, exhales were a dragon's exhaust.
It was quiet, almost unnaturally deserted, amplified by the 10 million lights in the Manhattan skyline, fed by three massive arteries of human intention, the outline of huge arches over the mighty river. Over one roared an M train. The even/uneven clacking of cars over metal. Lines traversed a thousand times, exactly the same and never the same.
I felt good. I felt alone. I felt peace.
It lifted me higher, spun me dizzy with joy and freedom. I didn't even stutter to leap over a fence off the running path into the grass. And in that very instance where I cross a mundane inconvenience that yet could dissuade millions of able, human souls, that I felt expansion.
Fuck limitations. Fuck rules. Fuck everyone else. I'm here. I'm the greatest thing that's ever lived, as far as I can tell, and I will do what it takes to get what I want, because I want it. And I'll do it was joy
That means 9PM runs in February in the cold. That means finding transcendence in a leap, and 50ft of brown, dying, imported grass, on 5 inches of soil, on 3 feet on concrete, over the shallow waters of a river so polluted, the crabs can't even.