Market Street

I sat watching Philadelphia wake up this morning.  After a magic 6 miles around the Penn campus, through Rittenhouse Square and into a deserted business district, I stretched and ate grapes on the sidewalk as the old men, newspapers in hand, made their way to coffee shops while their younger counterparts trudged back to where they think they left their cars at the beginning of a long night.  Sitting on the cold pavement in the sun, I realized that my sore throat lost its battle and I, admittedly, felt unstoppable.

Lights popped on at some of the offices on the higher floors in the neighboring buildings; vendors towed their little trucks to the usual spots and flipped open their lids for business; and women wearing lulu marched their dogs off to the park as they chatted at each other.

For the next 20 minutes, I stretched in silence, watching.  The people poured out of their homes, headed in all directions, and so did the runners.  Suddenly people were sprinting past me, down Market Street, likely heading to a path or away from the traffic that was already picking up.

I may be projecting, but it seemed like everyone had their "goal face" on this morning.  Some were running off a night out, others were checking off a box on a training schedule and reminding those they ran next to that this day and this run would lead to greater things and still, those pensive few, deep in their holistic thoughts, strided by so gracefully that their feet barely touched the pavement.

A beautiful sunrise in Center City apparently brings us out, whatever the reason, in concert.  Seemingly scattered all over the city, yet we were all in a dance together this morning: running.