I took an awesome run the other morning.
I headed toward town from the condo and turned up toward the airport, not realizing that this was the red stripe cut diagonally from town to the top of the plateau. Once I figured out what I was in for, it was only one mile further to the scenic overlook, and I was determined.
The road was narrow, and probably I shouldn’t have been running on it. There was a notice to bikers to stay with traffic, so I figured that drivers were accustomed to passing with care. I still stepped off when a car came by and got several friendly waves (and no fingers) in response. That steep mile—interrupted as it was—took me 14 minutes, but I made it and felt appropriately sweaty and triumphant at the top as I took photos alongside well-coifed tourists who had arrived in their air-conditioned cars.
The view on the way down was even better, and my time would have been significantly better if I didn’t keep stopping to take photos. Today my obliques are killing me, but in a good way.
The best part may have been Sam’s look when I pointed out the road, and his incredulous, “That was where you ran?”