NOTE: If you don’t want to read about vomit, skip this entry.
Today was a beautiful day to go running. It was sunny and bright—a crystal blue sky—and 51º. The traffic over the bridge was light since it was Sunday, and I could see pretty far in the distance, letting me see the topography of the valley better than ever before. There are a lot more hills than I’d ever noticed.
The running went well. I didn’t have to wear the usual mittens, and by the end of the first mile, even my sweatshirt had become superfluous. On the way home, I had made it up the hill to High Street, but not without getting that vomit-y feeling right as I passed Pearl. And sure enough, right after I crossed High Street, what comes up but… yup, a bunch of yellow-green mucus. Luckily I was running on an empty stomach.
After a few minutes of hunkering down next to the bushes in front of 202 Wash, I walked to Park Place, and then started running again. It’s amazing how so undesirable an act re-energizes the body; it always feels better once it all comes out, like I could run for another five miles.
… Wow. That was disgusting. Sorry.
