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Ahhhh…Saturday morning, up early and ready to go get my next fix before my family awakes. It will take me a half-hour before the high sets in so I quietly sneak out of the house, pizza from last night in my right hand and my cell phone in my left. It’s a misty morning and the trails are patiently awaiting my arrival. I step out of my swagger wagon, aka “The Black Pearl” (my trusty Honda Odyssey), and take a deep breath of fresh, wet, San Diego air.
I know I won’t get the feeling I desire until I get going… I begin my run down the 8.5 mile path of muddy trail. 1 mile in, I pass a stream and go up a rocky hill; the rain has turned from a sprinkle to a steady flow but that doesn’t faze me, I continue… I am so entranced by my own thoughts that I don’t even notice the mileage I’m tracking. It’s hard to understand the sheer pleasure that is accumulated during my weekend escapades without experiencing the euphoria for yourself by putting in the work. Before you judge or turn the other cheek, just hear me out…
It all started with a quarter life crisis. At first, I wanted to run away and become a missionary in Africa, or a stripper in Spain, or even a teacher in Colombia, but I figured my safest, most moral bet would be running the hardcore streets of San Diego. I would pick a location, run out the door, and just keep running until the high set in. The husband didn’t seem to mind me tending to my confusion and craziness through running, as long as I stayed within the city/state/country and didn’t do anything illegal. So out I would go; every weekend I would stay out longer…upping my drug in hopes to retain the high. I started going on what those who run the streets call a “Long Run”. To the