—World War II slogan San Francisco 1992-1993 It took weeks to recuperate from my thirty-mile reawakening. The blisters on my toes eventually healed, the muscle soreness subsided, the shin splints eased. I felt enough joy from the experience to keep the running going. Four nights a week, right after work, I would change into my new jogging gear and hit the road. I started with just a few miles per outing, but I soon increased that to five or six miles a day. Like most runners, I had favorite routes that I’d clocked with my car, noting the mile markers along the way. I’d frequently see the same fellow runners on my route: the guy being pulled along by his black Labrador, the older couple who always ran together, the tough-looking kid with the awkward gait. We’d exchange pleasantries. Near the beginning of the run, it could be an energized wave accompanied by actual verbal communication, like “Hi.” Toward the end of an outing, it would be little more than a nod—even an eyebrow lift was a stretch on the really tough days.
