It was a pretty Sunday, the Spring kind of pretty you deeply appreciate when the calendar insists it is the middle of January. Church was over and as we’d planned, Tim and I made a mad dash for the parking lot and jumped into his car. He started the engine, then reached across to the back seat and handed me the clothes I’d piled back there earlier that morning.
Here? In the car? I asked. I’m meant to change right here in the car?
He looked at me and shrugged, smiling a little. It’s what athletes do, he said.
(I’m not sure I’m meant for this, is what I thought.)
It all started a few days earlier when, in passing, with hardly a thought, I said something innocent like: I think maybe I could be a hiker, if I knew for sure I’d not encounter a wild animal–you know, a bear or a deadly snake. Well, my husband heard me, and the next thing I know we’re standing in our hiking boots in Harbison State Forest staring down ten wooded trails. My husband is an athlete, you see, the kind who plans life around whatever his training spreadsheet tells him to do. He’s finished dozens of marathons, two iron man competitions and one (I still can’t believe it and I was there) 50-mile ultra marathon–an impressive guy with the self discipline (and commitment to health) it takes to do that kind of thing.
I, on the other hand, am not that person.
Still it was a glorious day, and I’m so happy I made it the four miles we trekked to get to see sight after sight like this.
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