I’m part of a group that meets in Central Park once a week or so to see which body part will tear, twist, rip, swell, snap or otherwise malfunction. Yup, we’re runners. Sort of sadomasochism without the leather, but lots of lightweight mesh and moisture wicking fabric. The weather yesterday was cool with a breeze which made it ideal for running. Of course, then we decided to tackle the hills at the north end of the park. The Alps they’re not, but those hills do seem steep the longer you go. I survived and still feel the warm afterglow of that endorphin rush of making it all the way up and not collapsing in a puddle. The other cool thing is that it seems to be helping with my writing. The runs clear my head (ok, not exactly a Herculean task) and I sit down to the novel with a new and re-energized perspective.