Moving to the MoCo

I have to admit, I feel like I've cheated fate. For at least two summers, I walked over the Spellman Overpass every night coming back from work. I also used to run over the Spellman as part of my running route. And, every time, as the trail led away from Greenway, curving out of the view of any passersby, my heart would speed up, I would look into the woods, and quicken my pace. If I was running, my big burst of speed would happen in those final, fateful few yards leading to the 'Pass. My mind played tricks on me whenever I spotted a stranger on the path coming toward me: menacing thugs were just eight-year-olds, gangs were merely powerwalkers, and nasty, crazy old men were...well, nasty crazy old men.

I often thought of the Ravine by Bradbury. I often felt like the entrance to the overpass swirled menacingly like in Fellowship where Frodo yells ,"Get off the road!" Nature played her part too. It often seemed my lot to be crossing the Spellman at the same moment that a summer thundstorm crackled above, adding a new fear that as I strode across the Overpass, suddenly out of the trees, surrounded by an inverted metal fence (to prevent suicides, I guess), starkly naked, that I was going to be incenerated.

I suppose fear is too strong a word. It was exhilarating in a way, knowing that man and nature were conspiring to destroy me and that every day I defeated them. So, my new walk home down New Hampshire seemed fairly innocuous at first...until I passed a couple of crazies over by the pawnshop. So, there's potential.