If Kerouac had been a runner

It was a Sunday of shapes and surprises. The sidewalks were still snow dusted when I set off for downtown. Rested and excited, my initial intention was to crash the run club for the first time in months, but had not accounted for the cans of Rockstar shotgunned by the fast kids. My walk break question was met with a snicker: "You won't get many of those." The Gaz and I let them go ahead so we could be free to design our own adventure where endurance would take privilege over speed. Stoked by our overarching vision of The Great Run, we bravely cut fresh trail in Rockcliffe then took a shortcut to duck into a market cafe to warm hands and top up courage levels with a quick shot of espresso. A display case of handmade chocolate delights held our attentions long enough for her to carbo-load a square of rose-flavoured Turkish Delight and a rectangle of honeyed baklava as light and flakey as falling snow. Spirits high from city lights and stimulants, we wound our melting way through tables of books at Chapters, dissing shrink-wrapped hardcovers before pushing open the door to whatever would become the next leg of the run. A few steps to the icy canal, a few cautious strides on the sublime surface and we were rejoicing at the clarity of our new path which we accepted honourably as a sign: "to whom much has been given, much will be expected." We dodged skaters and ubiquitous snowplows, both determined to bruise, and give us a run to remember, we were still high from the warmth of the break. To Dow's Lake we charged, side by side, the wind at our backs. To the canvas-covered lean-to's where we stretched hamstrings on long wooden benches and marvelled at kids' kitty cat hats. On the return, we encountered uphill wind resistance and tried to keep the motivational entropy at bay. Gaz talked up the Beavertail until its simulated presence in our hungry, clutching minds gained sufficient substance to carry us as though on a wave to the end, at which point we ripped away thrilling morsels of the lemony cinnamon sugar bread like it was freshly killed prey. In a way it was our savior, imparting strength for the remaining km, at the end of which we stumbled into the meeting place, blind with fatigue, shaking from spent effort. More caffeine and warm milk and some twisted conversation, Gaz pounding on her arms to regulate blood flow and then we were collecting radiator-heated mitts and jackets for the final leg. I wished for a handful of chocolate-covered coffee beans, dark stones of artificial stimulation to help me fly over the snowy sidewalks leading me home. Gaz turned a corner and I foolishly slowed to a walk, feeling happy and crazy and tired. I reached my basement cave, unlocked the door, body crumpling, and I felt compelled to lie down where I was, eyes closing with relief. 29km.