The Imagery of Smell

Two days ago, I stepped out our front door into a veritable wall of heat. It was something that would leave folks from barren climates still shivery, but it left me parched with nothing but the ubiquitous rubbing of crickets’ legs to keep me company.

I turned right and jogged down a narrow rocky path that brought me to the start of the Lochside Trail. From there I proceeded along the Connector and across the Blenkinsopp Valley to the foot Mt Doug. Always a sucker for punishment and wanting to truly experience the warmth, I slowly made my way along the shoulder of the hill, over Little Doug, around the back and then up the exposed eastern face.

Almost brought to a standstill in places, I couldn’t escape the dusty heat, the dryness allowing my whole body to breathe. But it was the smell of the desiccated grass that I remember most. If I ran up the shoulder of the mountain, it was the armpit that brought me back to the base. Running under a thick canopy of trees the temperature dropped drastically as the trail dived north toward the ocean. It was here that I could smell the salty seawater, but I was surprised with the accompanied sweetness that I could taste on my tongue… much like salted taffy I imagine. If only I could package it.

Upon arriving home yesterday, I made like Jack Bauer (24) and defused a potentially dangerous time bomb which unfortunately affected my planned long(er) run; but I’m still alive to tell the story and with a little luck I’ll be able to sneak out for a jaunt later this afternoon.

Training:
Monday: day off (scheduled)
Tuesday: hilly 1:09:02
Wednesday: easy 41:20
Thursday: easy 24:01