Lake Harmony 2013

As I was sliding down an icy hill toward flat ground and the beginning of my 2nd run around Lake Harmony on Superbowl weekend, I sensed something behind me moving slowly and heavily over the ice.

It was an otherwise deserted road lined only with trees and peppered with long, winding driveways with trashcanned property lines and blue plastic mailboxed entrances.  Because no one could hear me scream, my only real choice was to turn down Adele, pause my Garmin watch and face my predator.

Sure enough, a large, red pick-up truck with a snowplow on the front of it and an imposing driver behind the wheel was creeping down the same icy hill, unwilling to pass me.  I braced myself for an unpleasant encounter only .25 miles into what should have been a crisp and silent run along a frozen lake dotted with little boys playing hockey and families gliding along the smooth, solid surface to breakfast.

As Mr. Red Truck approached and rolled down his window, I had one earbud completely untucked  from my hat and was ready to defend myself against whatever barrage of insults this jerk hurled at me for slowing him down on his way to go plow something.  Instead, I was met with a smile and a flannel covered arm waving with a very simple "I salted that hill for you extra good so it won't be so bad on the way back up," before he rolled the window back up and turned South on Lake Drive.  And, with that, I turned Adele back up, beaming at the generosity of a complete stranger, and followed his tracks down to the lake with steady flurries falling and a quiet horizon of snow and pine trees sitting, just out of my reach, untouchable against the  rising sun.

In the miles that came later, I welcomed myself to running in a small town; to running by the same faces; to running without the fear of getting lost; to running cold and into the wind; to running around blind corners; to staring at a lake so untouched you wonder if you're really seeing it; to encountering good people on their way to do good things; to running miles upon miles on top of packed snow; to drying my socks over a radiator; to running, free, in the Poconos.

Pictures courtesy of the brilliant Julia Keim