Reaching for the Right Resort

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The sign above is no joke. Well, actually, I suspect it is. Every time I see it on I-80 heading towards Sacramento, I smile at CalTrans’ attempt to defuse aggravated motorists inching towards work, home or a vacation.

(My all-time favorite state-sponsored traffic sign remains the neon orange billboard above the South Station tunnel right at the height of Boston’s decade-long Big Dig public works project. It read: “If Rome were built in a day, we would have hired their contractor.”)

Lately I’ve been wondering if I have enough mileage left in these legs to make it all the way to Ocean City, MD. I’ve never been a great record-keeper when it comes to running, but I suspect over the past two-plus decades, I’ve logged enough miles to make it to at least St. Louis, if not my old home in Appalachia. And that’s taking the scenic route.

There comes a time when you re-examine recent injuries and see them not as temporary obstacles towards personal greatness but evidence your best years are behind you. Sure, there’s sadness in realizing a life with new limitations, but there’s also gratitude that there are still runs to look forward to, even if they now must be done in the span of a TV sit-com instead of a full-length movie, with previews.

That’s where I am right now as I rotate my early mornings between the gym one day and my neighborhood streets the next. Today’s the first time the run-walk ratio tipped in running’s favor, which bodes well for doing a steady three-miler next weekend in Coronado with training friends.

Still, I remain as aggravated as those freeway drivers wondering just how long it’s going to take to get where I want to go. Inching my way towards Placerville, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever get clear across the country, or why I even feel the need for such a far-off destination. Afterall, Ocean City is a nice enough resort town, but I think Tahoe's where I belong.

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