Ah hubris in running strikes again. Less than 48 hours after stepping off the crispy Thursday trail all energized I was curled in a ball on the side of the Juan de Fuca trail projectile vomiting 1 1/2 liters of water and remains of breakfast for the second time in as many hours. My one day run of the Juan de Fuca with the fun runners of Victoria was not to be. Somehow, I still want to run.
Yesterday was one of those runs. Everything flowed, I felt nimble and fast on technical downhills, powerful and strong on steep climbs. Running alone with no benchmarks, I felt as fast as the fastest even though my running always falls about 50% slower than the speed demons out there. Who cares, my shirt was off, sweat was flowing freely out while breath flowed freely in and the trail felt like home: fun, friendly, playful. I dashed across the trans-canada as twilight settled in. A hairy, shirtless, glistening, geared-up sasquatch in front of the couple of cars that saw me. Back into the woods and over rocks along Goldstream past bigleaf maples and madrone. I am so damn lucky to be doing this. So damn lucky.