Like the fabled Alaskan "Bridge to Nowhere," the Elmer Smith Bridge spans a rocky draw in the Angeles National Forest. The bridge is closed, fenced off; stopping one from crossing over into what-appears-to-be dense brush. But Elmer sits exactly 5 miles from my start line at the Rose Bowl: turn-around point for a ten-mile run. There is a metal sign that is no longer readable. But in TNT we would ritually slap this sign as we headed back down the hills. Three months have passed since my last Elmer and I was delighted to once again slap the sign. Finished much better this week. Drank lots of water yesterday, started earlier and slower, then closed strong on the last two miles. Iced my calves all week and will do the same this week. That helped relieve soreness. My endurance slowly rebuilds.
Ernesto was supposed to meet me but bagged due to a crushing hangover. He was caught last night in a Happy Hour Trap where you stop for one after work and wake up the next morning on the hood of a car in another state.
But we'll try again next week.
2 comments:
ah, memories!...
Of course, if it were Florida, that sign would be riddled with bullet holes.
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