This past weekend, as Nick and I were driving to a new friend's place in Denver, I told him Colorado didn't really feel like home yet. I'd been living in Colorado for almost a month. I'd become familiar with the highways and major roads in Denver. Like, I-25 is the most irritating stretch of highway I've ever experienced. It's ALWAYS a pain in the ass. It could be Saturday afternoon and you're still crawling at 30mph. And Wadsworth is a big north/south street. And 285 runs east/west through the city and will take you to the new IKEA if you're brave enough to go there. But it still felt like I had just been on a long vacation.
But something must have changed over the span of a few days, because as I was driving home from stair repeats (at Red Rocks of all places) on Tuesday, I felt like I was really driving HOME. Maybe it was the realization that I was familiar with all the little bends in 285. The knowledge that when you see a sign that says "Windy Point" you are actually past the worst of the really sharp bends if you're heading south. (I think this reaffirms my argument that it is really WIN-DEE point and not WINE-DEE point.) Maybe knowing that Sourdough Dr, which Nick and I like to call "sourdough doctor" musing that a master baker lives down that road, is between Tiny Town and Windy Point.
Or maybe it was finally feeling like I fit in, socially. I had new running buddies in Leila and Becca. I spent Sunday evening enjoying dinner and games with my other new running friend, Kate. Luke and Courtney came over for dinner a couple nights before, to a house that wasn't totally full of boxes.
It was probably a combination of all of those things. But I'll stick with knowing 285. If you know 285, then you're home. Those are my words of wisdom for today. "But I don't live in Colorado," you say. "That doesn't make any sense!" Well too bad. I guess you're not home yet.