3pm on Friday

Slippery from sweat, from sun and from hot sticky air as I move past cars filled with silent stares at strides, at man and at runner. The spongy air creates a heightened tactual experience, vaguely akin to the horrible sensation of running in a dream and not getting anywhere except I am moving. Moving down roads strode countless times before. Same run done is different this time I begun. The air, its smell, from the way I sweat I could tell, it's 80 degrees for the first time in Bangor this year.