Re-entry

Welcome back to New York

I’m writing from my desk, which I walked over to, all on my own. After four miserable days in bed spent sick as a dog, it’s a small triumph. Kouka says I had the flu. The scale says I lost 5 lbs. Anyways I am upright now.

Kouka’s come home from a run. It’s Saturday at 10:50 am and we’re not moving too fast. It’s the first sunny day in a long stretch of overcast. It’s winter still but we left the back door open to our terrace. Boots is curious and goes back and forth. I masked the railing in chicken wire back in the summer for him. It’s cat-proof now. The weather is still cold in the 50s and Kouka’s legs are red from the wind chill, but the direct sun makes you forget.

Back in Palm Springs there’s a part of town called The Cove. It’s at the foothills of the mountains and either a National or State Park, with very pale gray rock, and very dry trails going in every direction. I haven’t run much since leaving the triathlon team last year but I ran these trails. The 7 miles came fast. It’s unusual, for me, to run that long with that ease. Normally my knees hurt or I get bored and try to speed up. But the elevation makes it hard to go fast and the terrain makes it impossible in parts. You’re so focused on the rocks and stepping right to avoid rolling an ankle, you are in the moment, and miles and time fly by.

After my run, I shared a link to the boys group chat back home in New York. Look at that, I thought. But coming back to New York, now that I’m here, it’s hard to understand mountains and deserts like that and what it really feels like to run them when it’s hot out. We’re used to running the east side or the west side in the cold. Maybe that’s why New Yorkers are so obsessed with running.

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The Salinas was only a part-time river. The summer sun drove it underground. It was not a fine river at all, but it was the only one we had and so we boasted about it—how dangerous it was in a wet winter and how dry it was in a dry summer. You can boast about anything if it’s all you have. Maybe the less you have, the more you are required to boast.

John Steinbeck, East of Eden