For not the first time this week, I was slow to awaken and sure my legs had been replaced by leaden stancheons. What could I do? Nothing, really. Running is nothing more than an addiction to endorphins, and I had to feed the beast. But first, the coffee. I’ve managed to cut that habit down to three a day, so I had two of them before I went out.
But after that, there was no avoiding it. Jumping in the Bucket, I headed to the vacinity of Old Man Jones. Rather than parking directly by his trails, however, I parked down by the river in the little lot with the annoying signs. (I have made it a habit to back into the signs upon entering or leaving the lot, in the hopes of dislodging them.) From the lot, I had some time to warm up before the real climbing began.
But the real climbing began soon enough. Going directly up on a stretch of singletrack is hard enough, so I did not appreciate having to chew my air before I swallowed. It did, in any case, seem like the double track showed up sooner than I expected. Still, there it was, only going up.
Small steps, I told myself, small steps. At what point does running become a goofy way of walking fast? All I know is that there were times when it seemed like walking would be faster. Mercifully, the television relay station finally came into view, and I knew I was on the summit. Which presents only one problem: getting down.
Descending single track is really no easier than going up. Some of the paths up there on Jones are fit to put Dipsea to shame. Yet when I had the choice between single track and logging road, the obvious choice was single track. I was headed to the beach for a couple of days, and the moutains wanted to be sure I remembered them.