That is what we did on Saturday. Micah and I did the running and Simon did the screaming. (There were many moments when I felt like screaming but realized that it was probably best if I conserved my breath.) We ran across the Brooklyn Bridge, up the West Side Highway to 72nd Street, through Central Park and then down Park Avenue, which the city had conveniently closed to vehicular traffic all the way down to Brooklyn Bridge so that our way home was relatively unimpeded. It was slightly under 20 miles and I’m not going to record how long it took us because that is something that I don’t want to dwell on as I think about running 26.2 in a month and a half.
The casualties of the run included one of Simon’s snack bowls (hence the screaming), our creamy white complexions (that’ll teach us not to run in the middle of the day again), my right knee (which, after two days of sort of taking it easy is feeling much better), and my ego. Funny how last week’s 17-miler was a piece of cake and just adding a few measly miles brought me back down to earth. It’s good to be humbled.