My bike date stood me up because he had to ride hard and fast. I am slow and easy. I love slow. But ride hard and fast—I understand the need in my bones. And yet I was thrilled to discover how unsad I was to not bike, how much I wanted to go running. I only started biking because I couldn’t run. Now, I’ve been able to run again, following strict safety rules. It’s like running in a challenging foreign language. I can’t just blab blab blab.

            1. Every other day at most.

            2. Feet on frozen bags of brussels sprouts and then rolly ball after.

            3. Only on track at new school, track made of tiny black super sponges.

            4. Slow in brand new shoes.

            5. Ask feet how they are, really each ¼ mile. And listen.

Happily enough, I’m in a slow phase. I’m writing slow. Eating slower. Driving slower. Getting dressed a little slower. Looking longer. (I am also in a cowboy things phase, but that’s another world and not part of the slow thing, it’s just fun—pearl snaps, tiny flowers, kicky skirts, and a cache of hand-crafted bolo ties I came upon in a secret and surprising location. (Bad idea: trying on new cowboy boots in running shorts, but UPS truck pulled up as I was trotting out. I had to try them on, right then. They stood up to the running shorts. That is how great they are. They just looked up and said howdy, no affectation, no judgment.)

I had a foot problem for three years. It might be fixed. (Thanks, Tee!) I’m going slowly because I earned the problem speeding while running, going over the limit. Little Miss hubris. My feet are small and beautiful feet and I was treating them as though they were monster truck tires. I was saying GIT R DUN to my feet. Using a heavy fake accent. Hollerin. And trying to run faster than people who were not even racing. 

Three years ago, I was slow but I thought I was Little Miss Fast.

Now I’m racing myself to see if I can hold a slow pace, really go slow. It’s harder than fast. There’s no kick, it’s not like drugs. It’s more like love, or listening. I have to ask the feet each ¼ mile: how are you really?

So my bike date had to ride hard and fast, and the feet leapt up and said: we can go two miles. No, I said. Really? I was thrilled, surprised, and, after the brief UPS delay, out of there.

There is nothing like running. It feels like the feet are what makes the world spin. The rhythm of it aligns the heart, the sky, the head, and town. There is no other way to do that. None.

The kids in the middle of the track were running around like little goats or animals, organizing themselves around the frisbees and soccer balls and coaches and the sun shone done, and the moon was perfectly halved. I ran around 8 times. Maybe more. I’m terrible at counting laps. They are terrible at counting me, too.  We round.

If I had planned to run, I don’t think it would have been so much fun. It was a secret run. Like the accidental essay I wrote instead of working on my book. It was an instead-of, a gift run, a perfect night in

I came home singing, Olympic-ish, and I kissed my feet on their foreheads as though they were two tiny twin babies. Which they are. My small slim beautiful kind feet. Little tiny bony wings.

Cycling is great. I live for it. But there’s nothing like running. Running is like having a superpower.