Sunday morning coming down (the trail)
The recent late September heat wave sure got me in the rhythm of running at first light (except for a few fun twilight runs to the tune of 90+ degrees at sunset).
This Sunday morning the car thermometer showed temps back below 60 degrees at 7 am when I pulled into Irvine Park . . . perfect running weather on a clear fall morning . . .
. . . and I guess perfect mountain biking weather as well; the Barham Ranch trails were crazy with packs of speeding gleaming technology, which got me somehow thinking of the song “Sunday Morning Coming Down” (written by Kris Kristofferson and made famous by Johnny Cash).
The real lyrics:
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothing short a’ dying
That’s half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
My version this morning:
On a Sunday morning trail run,
I’m wishing that I was alone,
’cause there’s something about almost getting run over by speeding mountain bikers
that takes you out of your running zone.
And there’s nothing short of dying
that’s half as scary as the sound
as derailleurs rattling behind you
and Sunday morning bikers coming down.
Along with the distraction of having to move to the side of the singletrack every few minutes, more people meant more comments on my shoeless state of being: “You’re barefoot!” “Where’s your shoes?” “How do you do that?” Etc. & Etc.
At the beginning of this 6.5 year adventure, I would enthusiastically reply with all kinds of witty & educational comebacks; at this point I’ve realized it’s waste of breath that could otherwise be used to fuel my loping legs.
So I just smile and give a thumbs up and keep. On. Truckin’.
During breaks in the hurtling hoards, this:
After two glorious hours of running barefoot up and down champagne-dust (albeit crowded) hills, I even made it home in time to make the 9:30 am service at my church-from-birth, St. John’s Lutheran in Orange, CA, whose senior pastor is one of the local mountain bikers,
but who I don’t have to worry about getting run over by on Sunday morning, at least.