Emily R. King and Melody Wright are hosting this bloghop where we tell one true and one false story, in 500 words or less. Entry number one posts today. Come back Wednesday the 5th for my second entry. If you haven't signed up yet, but want to participate the linky is still open here. We get to vote Thursday on which one is true or false and there are prizes:) The true story doesn't have to be from this past summer, but it does have to be true.
Running is something from my past, high school, college, and those years when I only had one child to push in the jogging stroller. But this summer I'm running off baby fat from #4. Only it's so dang hot that I'm running at 5am and still, the heat hits me. It's this arid, suck your breath and all the sweat from your pores, so that even when I finish running I'm as dry (or more dry) than when I started. This morning I run to the Chocolate Drop. It's this graffitied hill, a hard incline, but short enough I can push up it and feel like the king of the world. It's my quiet spot, where I see my little town and often do my sun salutations (in my running shoes). Today the climb seems hard, the rocks poking more through my shoes and I know I have a cactus spine in my left heel. But I don't let myself stop. Starting again is more than my old of shape body can handle; besides, the sun is going to rise any second, the light is already filling the horizon. I crest the ridge, breathing hard and make myself stand up tall--instead of bending over like I want to. I rest both hands over my head and suck in all the oxygen I can get as the pink sun peeks over the horizon, and then rises, so fast that each time I watch it I am in awe.
I move into my sun salutes, staying an extra breath in upward facing dog so I can keep watching the sunrise. After three salutes I sit cross-legged on a flatfish boulder and close my eyes, the sun's light visible though my lids. I try to meditate, but the need to get back home (so my husband, Stan, can bike to work) won't leave me, so I stand, say goodbye to the sun, and turn west. And there, biking towards the Chocolate Drop is a guy on a road bike eerily like Stan's. It's read and white and the guy has his same blue helmet. He's bent low over his bike and doesn't look up to me, so far overhead. As he passes the drop I see his shirt, the free Bike for Aids shirt my husband got from a race in Palm Springs.
I cuss in my mind yell to Stan, but he doesn't hear me. I run my fastest time ever back home, making that mile in seven minutes (not good for my HS time, but for here and now, I flew). I punch in the code and race into the house. It's silent, eerie, and thankfully, my children have no idea they were temporarily abandoned. My husband, on the other hand, gets a earful.
Fact or Fiction: You decide.