Fourth of July morning in between games, I had maybe an hour
and a half. I wanted to get in a good hard run but wasn't really in the mood to just run fast back and forth along the waterfront. I looked up at the looming fog, forcing its way over Mount Sutro. Twin Peaks it was.
I rounded Potrero and hung a left up 17th, a dead straight shot up the mountain. The city was quiet, the holiday not yet in full swing. I eased out through the Mission, across Market and up. I held a steady pace, but didn't go too hard. Up on Clayton I caught some bikers and put in an effort to close the gap. They saw me and wouldn't let it happen. I love catching bikers.
Swinging up onto the mountain, I broke through into the fog and hit the wind. San Francisco muggy, I looked up at the tourists taking in the non-view. I imagined myself up there, looking down on me, marveling at how hard I was working. It urged me on.
I mounted the crests and nearly got blown off, laughing at the people up there leaning into the wind and fog and snapping pictures of the San Francisco summer.
I knelt for a leak and took off. Here was the training I had waited for. As I gained momentum I resolved to take the title for fastest decent. When I started seeing 4-handles, I knew I either had it or that there was one fast mother out there doing the same thing.
Across Portola I kept up the pace, chest heaving and hips twisting, landing softly a challenge. I flipped past Elk and kept falling. Diamond came out of nowhere. I jogged it out, adrenaline still pumping.
The rest of the run home was a gradual down, weaving in and out of walkers on Mission, the Precita U and past the park, through depravity under the freeway just as mile 10 clicked off I was home. Now that's the way you ring in the 4th.
