I'm back jogging. Where did these little hills and dips come from on our main street. I never noticed them before. Or is it that my 60 year-old body must make more adjustments this season? To run up the tiny hill, it takes just a TAD more effort to lift my legs out of the hip sockets hips and push off. To coast down the itsy hill, I have to strain SLIGHTLY more to suck in the ole gut. I also notice that I run more deliberately, forcing my left foot to stop pronating, lifting my knees when the pavement gets uneven. This is a nod to my age, and my fear of falling again like I did in the Fall, on wet rocks in the woods. I'm adjusting to some new reality.

The word 'adjustments' offends me somehow. Adjustments bring to mind things like naps, walkers, canes. To counter these adjustments, I run farther than I should, since I'm just returning to my season. I barrel down long concrete sidewalks, stepping around waiting bus riders and hopping over glassy patches of ice. At the crosswalks, I run in place impatiently. It's a deliciously cold, sunny, windless morning. I carve out a new route, and relish measuring the miles later, in the car. I have the air, my legs have the muscle, and my spirits rise knowing I can run another season, do another race, inch into another age category.