We had lead, and we wanted gold. We had short, brutal lives, and we wanted immortality. If wanting was doing, then humans would long ago have learned how to live forever in cities paved in gold. Now though, the idea of alchemy is a sort of short-hand for misguided boondoggles, or a hyperbole for things or experiences that are somehow more than the sum of their parts.
We were meant to run 3 miles slowly this morning. We are tapering.
So I put the watch on, so it could tell me when we were going too fast, not too slowly. It said: Too fast. Too fast. Too fast.
Perfect weather is a hard thing to define. It’s subjective. For me, some sunshine, a light breeze, cool, dry air, those are key ingredients. The ground should be moist too, but not muddy, not sticky. The trees should be greening, and the birds should sing.
It was a perfect morning.
If we weren’t running so long this weekend, if we weren’t trying to be ready, it would have been a morning to let it rip, to run those trails in their pristine state, like a roller coaster after hours, the park empty and the safety guidelines less closely followed. I could feel the dip and swerve of the path drawing us forward, too good. Too goddamned good.
My watch is bright orange, and it stands out on my wrist. “Hey!” it says. “Too fast! Relax.” But it’s a liar, despite its accuracy, a real killjoy. It is absurd to let a piece of hard, orange plastic tell you what to do with your life.
The weather was perfect, and the trail was golden, and when we can go fast enough, I’m sure we’ll live forever. Anyway, we went as slowly as we could, and it was only 3 miles. It’ll probably be OK.