During a recent bout of summer-like weather, I decided to barefoot run.

I suggest trying it at least once in your life (find smooth, clean asphalt). The  firmness of the ground pounding against your bare feet is incredible.

I brushed up against more than asphalt on my run around Green Lake; I got the reminder that sometimes the fastest and easiest way isn’t 100% of the time the best: Maybe I don’t need my high tech running shoes to do it right.

There was a little pride involved with this run: barefoot running is viewed by many as “bad-ass,” and I don’t mind the attention (okay fine, I crave it).

As I ran, I saw five turtles on a log, soaking up sun, no longer huddled below the murky surface. I, like them, had escaped the murky ceiling of Seattle clouds.

My mom ran with me. She’s in her 50s, has always been interested in health, but she usually does things like dance or yoga, the less-intense stuff. I’ll say it again: My mom ran with me.

When I took off my shoes, I stopped churning through the crowd in a gasping blur. I got to see that adorable cohort of turtles. I sighed with pleasure at the velvety lawn when I stepped off the pavement.

Just to make sure I didn’t forget, the next day a million new muscles between my knee and ankle chorused their recollections of the prior day’s adventure.

Don’t forget this, they whispered.


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