Peace and Quiet

I've finally discovered how to get some personal space here in New York (other than holing up in my apartment, which is what I'm doing now, which is sometimes nice and sometimes feels pathetic). My secret? It's a simple recipe. Take one threat of a big, no, a crippling snowstorm. Wake up to three inches, with freezing rain coming down hard and ticking the ground and the windows. Add heavy gray skies—the kind that seem to press you gently back down onto your mattress. Layer up in running clothes; leave iPod at home. Head outside before 8 in the morning. (Yes, this is early. In general. In this city. Not early-to-bed, early-to-rise here, as was life in Colorado!) Slip and slide up to Prospect Park. And then?

You might find what I found this morning: Not much. On a 40-minute run, I only passed three other runners, who nodded in somewhat cheerful solidarity. In fact, the five snowplows, in scraping formation, which nearly plowed me, outnumbered the people who decided it was a good idea to pretend to be hardcore. The ice crunched under my shoes. The geese were settled in groups on the surface of the pond. I could even make new footprints.

Now, a caveat: I only passed three runners. That's not saying I only saw three people. There were a couple walkers, one very brave cyclist, and of course about a kazillion dogs and their owners doing the full-on frolic in Long Meadow.

But it was, I don't know, lovely.
And sufficiently invigorated, slightly self-satisfied, and flush with determination, this A-I-C [see earlier post] is putting her ass back in her chair!