Sidewalk Anxiety.

Dear City of Philadelphia,

I understand from my friends at Channel 10 that we are about to get slammed by yet another "perfect winter storm."

I hope this note finds you well-rested and ready to salt the crap out of our major streets and intersections.  In the off chance that you get a bit of downtime in the next 12 hours and find a few hundred extra bags of salt lying around, I'm begging you to take care with those sidewalks and running paths down by the river.  I'm not asking for perfection, just a little traction and about a one point five mile stretch - anywhere.

You see, Philly, I'm just back to running and have a great 3 mile run planned for tomorrow morning.  Yes, I'm so obsessive and slanted toward OCD that, as of 6:15PM in the middle of a sleet-filled disaster, I'm still planning on running tomorrow morning.  I'm like the mailman of running, if you will.  No, I haven't sought help for these tendencies.  Some, believe it or not, find it endearing.

To be clear, dear City, I'm begging for clear paths and sidewalks because I hate treadmills.  Yes, I said it.  I hate them with their calories per minute and miles per hour and incline levels and age/weight requirements and most of all for the way they pit one against the other. (Shockingly, I am so competitive that if you're next to me on a treadmill, I'm looking at your MPH and Incline and I've already set out to beat you before you even realize what's going on.) I hate few things - treadmills (along with liars and my mom's chicken divan) top the list.

So, as I slide back into the kitchen to remove the spaghetti squash from the oven in the hopes of actually creating something spaghetti-like with it, I thank you again for listening to one crazy runner's rant and I will rest my head peacefully tonight, knowing all the while that you will be salting up a storm during the next 12 hours.

Love, JC