The Fog of Running

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This morning’s run along the harbor made me wonder if I’m negotiating with the North Pole for the right gift. I want a bike, one that will carry me to work during the summer and occupy my weekends now that I can’t run for hours anymore. But, man o man, did I wish I had a more portable and dependable camera on me to capture some of the scenes this morning.

Our group arrived to fog thick as pea soup; you couldn’t make out the length of shoreline, much less the sailboats, yachts, naval base and downtown skyline beyond it. That’s the scene I left as I once again hitched a ride to an aid station three miles out in Point Loma and ran myself in.

Last week I forget to set my watch; this week I just plain forgot to bring it. But I didn’t need it to know I was struggling once I took off, trying to keep my mind off the aching ankle and my uneven breathing. Like the fog of war, there remains much ambiguity and uncertainty surrounding this strategy of mine. Am I pushing it too soon? Doomed to dull pain for months? Years? Working hard enough in the gym? Eating too much again?

The sun began to burn through the murkiness, and so did my resolve. I even got in a couple of shots before my body and my camera’s batteries conked out on me again.

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