On speed

I finally started running again. Very slowly, mind you, and not very far. But it's been about a year since the injury (less than that since the accurate diagnosis), and it felt like time.

The trick is making myself stop; the opposite of the tricks I used to play to make myself keep going, back when I was trying to transform from a sprinter into someone with actual stamina. Insidiously, it worked.

The reverse is much harder, since every part of me except a tiny stretch of my abdomen wants to go go go go go. And it never hurts while I'm running, only afterward. So there's a point during the workout—usually right when I hit my stride in mile two—when I have to second-guess my brain for the sake of my body. Still working on the balance.

When I haven't been running, I've been flying. First to England, as you know, for what turned out to be a lovely visit with family I hadn't seen for years. After the sadness of Grandma Rosa's funeral, we all felt grateful to spend the afternoon together in a comfy room, catching up and toasting and watching my criminally adorable new niece, Rosie, devour almost an entire salmon in her high chair.

And in a meteorological phenomenon still under investigation by the MI5, the sun shone almost every minute we were there. In Yorkshire. In March. If you're not half or three-quarters or 100% English, that won't excite you at all. But trust me—crazy times. Here, see for yourself.

The trip home was much less delightful than everything before it, unless your idea of delight involves a lot of turbulence, flavorless peanut noodles, and nine hours in the Atlanta airport. Nuff said.

Five days after touching down from that trip, I headed back to SFO for the second half of GrandmaFest 2010: Savta's 90th birthday in Maryland. Songs were sung, walks taken, brunches brunched, photos snapped, red slippers worn, and cellos played. The sun continued its freakish extended appearance, although the cherry blossoms weren't as cooperative.

Then I flew back across the country and collapsed in a grimy, jet-lagged heap on the floor. I'm still here. Please send coffee and yoga retreats.