48
Special day, special running shirt, one I rarely take out. (And very special time of year. 
)
In the event, I got to run in 8° and 24mph wind gusts, with mixed rain, hail, and sunshine. Basically got facially hail-blasted in the crosswind going over the Albert Bridge. Just awesome. (Despite brief brain freeze.) By the end, the day had turned to brilliant, slanting sunlight, me running flat-out through it with long, strong strides landing on the downbeat, singing along out loud from joy:
Let my heart bleed out, ‘til there‘s nothing left
It’s my day to be brilliant
It’s my day to be brilliant
Ran back across the bridge, its graceful pastel cables backgrounded by sprawling cloud cities, all of it glowing with the late light from west up the Thames. Got back to find the sun skittering down the Fulham Road, went and stood up on the median, arms spread wide, listening to the song one more time, regarding the ineffable, baffling, soul-squeezing sadness and beauty of life, smiling into the brilliance, a few tears rolling from the power of it all, not wanting that moment to end.
Given that, 48 hours ago, I was mainly interested in giving up on work, and giving up on life, pretty great moment. (And I know, and she knows, who I have to thank for the reclamation.) And then there was yesterday's exercise, which a small handful of you know about, and which I can't even begin. Lesson, I suppose: you never know how close around the corner is the sunshine. Or the hail.
My best run birth day.
(Oh, yeah – this:
