We’re back in Brooklyn. And, after sleeping for 16 hours in a 26 hour period, we’re feeling good.
However, it is Brooklyn, and it is summer. It’s hot. Steamy hot. Squish nearly melted on the sidewalk today as we walked from the train station to Manchild’s school. (The meltdown he had after we left the school? Well, there was no “nearly” about that. It was epic. I’m still recovering.) I got a message from the electric company today asking us to please not use our electricity for the next few days if we can avoid it. All those A/Cs are going to bust the power lines. (Apparently we are not supposed to use our A/Cs or computers or microwaves. But we can keep our refrigerators on. Thanks ConEd. Noted.)
Even with the heat, I needed to see my park again. So yesterday morning I woke up early, slid on my shoes and slipped out the door. When I walked outside, I didn’t smell the freshness of the dew or the feel the lingering cool like I did in Utah. And as I ran down the sidewalks and crossed the streets, I couldn’t tell you who lived (or used to live) in the houses I passed. But when I got to the park, I was home.
At first, I hadn’t planned to go very far. Four miles at the most. Micah had to go to work, after all, and I needed to get home so he could leave. But I didn’t get too far before that plan went out the window. I needed to tackle the hill, and that would add on another mile. It would be worth it, I told myself. And I wouldn’t be too much later.
I rounded the corner at Center Drive, crossed the Summer Speed Series start line, and found my stride, my place, my pace.
Bountiful’s hills are nice. Brutal, of course, but nice in the sense that you feel pretty awesome for attempting to climb them. But the Prospect Park hill is where I live. It’s where I can find my footing and know where I stand. And it’s good to be back there. It’s good to be back here. Even in this meltdown-inducing, steamy, circuit-breaking heat.