Conor and I wanted to go for a run, but couldn’t stand to leave Watson alone at home. Instead, we packed the dog along with reading materials, baby carrots, and metro passes. Our relay race plan started off well; Conor went for a run while I sat in the sun, took pictures of Watson, and listened to the young people nearby look up instructions for baking special brownies. I got tagged in, and joined the coursing stream of people that is the running lane in Central Park.
It was going so well. The weather was finally wonderful and everyone was stretching into it. The dogs ran, too, after the last abandoned bites of hot dogs, stray kernels of kettle corn. I dodged jogging strollers, bounced past the Guggenheim, and felt speedy, light, and happy. I rounded the corner of my last tenths of of a mile, and looked up for Conor and Watson. Who should have been right in front of me, under our home base tree. Rather, they would have been there, had I not missed a turn and ended up two miles away. Oops.
Fortunately for my absent internal compass, I have a phone that tells me where I am. I ran my way back to the two of them, and then we went to Shake Shake and ate too many servings of french fries and custard. The way I figure, if I’m going to get lost and run two extra miles, I might as well make it up in french fries.