It is not to be enjoyed perversely. It is to be endured.

The words “stir crazy” come to mind. When you’re stir crazy, you’re swirling all that time around in your head. You’re stuck inside and you can’t get out, and then you start to make up reasons you can’t get out, when you could, if you wanted to, put on your boots and go out. But then every time you do, it’s so cold you have to go back in and damned if you aren’t justified in not going out except to take out the trash for the next two days.

I solved the problem last year by joining a gym that had a hot tub. This year, we got a Y membership, and I could feel my heart expanding, Grinch-like, because of it. What a good idea.

Even better, though, is a perk of living in the Mid-Atlantic region. Although it snows occasionally, it almost always melts the next day. What is a layer of ice in Boston is safe wet pavement in New Jersey. So you can run through the snow, in the street, past the high school track team, down to the dock, back up the street to see the sunset, and home again, having shed a heavy sweater and most, or at least some, of the residue left over from the dull days.

Did you know cross-country skiing is fun?

Well, you can and it is.  Newman Springs Road, just past Brookdale, in case you forgot.  Get there before the snow melts.

However, two short weeks after that I ran my first half-marathon and it was, to my mind, a roaring success because of my ten miles in Philly. So the trail by the river was mythical–it gave me super strength, it was beautiful in fall, it had nice friends with water at the end of it. It was also somehow called “the Wissahickon.” When I described this beautiful trail to Ben, he said, “Oh, you mean the bike path?” Yeah, I guess so…

Ben lives about a mile from the Skuykill, so we walked to 30th Street Station and went for the Fells Bridge loop. The Fells Bridge is approximately 5 miles from Center City. So it would be another ten miles on the Skuykill for me. I didn’t put up any defense, not even a meek “But I haven’t run since May!” I could do it (right?).

The side that goes down along Kelly Drive includes Boathouse Row and a giant Grecian statue. That’s in the first two miles. Then there’s the stands for watching regattas (big news! the Dad Vail is moving to the Navesink River!) and then, there’s a lot of grass and cars. After what seems like an eternity but is, as I mentioned, roughly five miles, you get to Fells Bridge.

The bridge is easy to walk across if there aren’t any bikes cheating death with you on the sidewalk–otherwise, it’s a bit dicey with the cars. Kelly Drive is one of the eighty-six-million highways that dissect Philadelphia into a hand-shaped wreck. When you get to the other side of the river–I think it’s MLK Drive–it’s a relief to be in a quieter place. The views are more pleasant, grassier. Ben and I saw a mysteriously fat bird that looked like a funky creature I saw at the Botanical Gardens in Montreal. I wondered if it was a Canadian runaway.

Ben and I did ok coming back, though we could have used some water (and by “could have used” I mean I wondered if by jumping into the river I would get to drink some water before I died or if I would just die immediately on impact and miss out on the ten seconds of pleasure I was imagining I would enjoy if I did get to drink some water, and also if those ten seconds would be marred by the no doubt copious amount of pollution mixed in but I seriously doubted they would because I was ready to drink poisonous snake venom at that point). About three miles down back towards Center City the trail put us across the river again. We could see the art museum, and it looks awesome even if you aren’t Rocky.

Nearing the limit of my capacity to move, we jogged a little ways back to the water fountain at the start of Boathouse Row and I was glad I hadn’t thought too hard about this before going out; I was sore from ankle to rib cage. But Joan Benoit Samuelson came through for me again and we ran across the finish line at 30th Street.

Walking home, I did not have the joyous adrenaline rush one usually gets after a good run. This was nothing but a long run, and a hard one. Also, I was freezing. But I mused. (You do a lot of musing after a ten-mile run, you’re out of energy to do much else.) How was this river so different from the Charles in Boston? Why did the other runners seem so funny-looking? Why do bikers wear so much spandex? Why was it so hot out in November? Where did I last see my sunglasses? What could I eat that could possibly put an end to my hunger?

And finally–where had I gotten the name “Wissahickon”?

I told the family about my plans and they all jumped at the chance. Something about my description–”two hours of driving for a half-hour of running”–must have piqued their interest. So off we went. Li’l Skip languished, unused, in the driveway.

One hour later we arrived. The parking lot was rather crowded, which would be a bummer in any other state–but it was cool seeing all those New Jerseyans out in the woods!

Now, for the Natural Historical part: the park’s main feature is the Tripod Rock. It is a truly huge m-f-ing rock perched on three smaller ones. It looks like it will topple over any minute, and it’s been hanging out for 10,000 years. The Leni-Lenape were into it, and so am I. It was left by the Wisconsin Glacier.

My sister and I took the blue trail to the top. We ran up in twenty minutes (beasts!) and walked the rest of the way to see the site. What counts for a mountain is a good deal shorter than those of, say, Colorado, but we’ve got our little corner on the Appalachian Trail, too. The top reminded me of the kind of views you get in PA. It was pretty though the trees were brown.

We saw the tripod, then headed down via the yellow and white trails, which took us to two landmarks: someone’s Ruins, where a bunch of bandits used to live (the park map said they terrorized Boonton. I’m not sure why they would need a hideout to do that–seems to me you could get it done in a couple hours), and the cut-out for the power lines. The Leni-Lenape were more advanced than anyone thought.

Characteristically hungry, my family stopped at the Boonton Avenue Grille. To get to it, you have to cross the other landmark in Boonton, the intersection of Boonton and Wooten. Get it?

Yes, you heard me. I know there are a lot of skeptics out there. I was one, too, and I’ve lived here off and on for 20 years. But there are many, many square feet, possibly square miles, of rather lush greenery around here. And you don’t even have to go down to the Pine Barrens to find them.

(Truth be told, South Jersey is still no man’s land to me. I saw some cranberry bogs there once on a school trip and I haven’t been back since. We call those people “freaks.” As compared to the rest of the state.)

I won’t tackle Huber and Tatum just yet. But Thompson Park–Thompson Park has all the things a good park should have: a large body of water, well-maintained mulchy trails, and few people. It’s right next to Brookdale Community College, so there’s a good chance you’ll run into a skinny college kid in short shorts. Aside from that, you’ll encounter a few dog walkers and the occasional Long Branch half-marathon trainer–more short shorts. Grand.

The Reservoir Loop goes around the wonky-shaped and occasionally baffling (to those who are unable to read maps) reservoir. The trail keeps up pretty high above the water, making for some nice views, even though you can see traffic off in the distance from some of them. If you run it around sunset, I can testify that you will nine times out of ten be completely alone. You can pretend it’s Iowa. But, unlike Iowa, which has a lot of prairie fields and grain (I think), you get a good picture of what New Jersey flora and fauna is. Fewer pine trees than New England, more leafy trees than New York, many squirrels, and the occasional chipmunk. A mid-Atlantic panorama, as it were. That’s pretty cool.

The RL is something like four or five miles long, so shorter runs are better kept to the Track Loop, which is a mile. It’s mulched and surrounded by trees, and if you look really hard, you can catch a peek of the reservoir from the trailhead. It tends to be more crowded. It’s nice and flat, and plenty sprint around it.

Finally, we’ve got the Paved Trail. For the life of me I can’t figure out why anyone in his or her right mind would choose to walk this “trail” that loops around some soccer fields, passes the activity barns, and goes directly to the parking lots. Oh, and remember, it’s paved. So if you feel like giving yourself shin splints and being eternally boring, choose this one. Most do.

My guess at the phenomenon of the Ugliest Trail being the Most Crowded is that the residents of Monmouth County can’t guess at the prettiness a few hundred feet away. I’ve seen lots of paved trails around local soccer fields–they’re just fine when there’s no other option. But Thompson Park’s got more. You should see the reservoir at sunset.