Impatient with the drunk suburbanites delaying our cab ride, I got out some hasty good-byes and started to trot down West Fifth Avenue's deserted sidewalks.
Dave and Wendi, good friends of mine soon to marry, always celebrate the New Year at Brazenhead, so this year I joined. We inched through a mass of drunken revelers to a somewhat quiet corner of the basement bar and celebrated the passing of 2006 as much as the arrival of 2007.
A cab turned up surprisingly quick after the ball dropped, but competition was stiff for those seats. Since I didn't choose "improved patience" as a resolution, walking back in the 590-degree weather felt right.
So an hour into the new hour, a old lesson popped back into view - never run in Italian loafers. I learned this long ago, but adrenaline paired with the desire to avoid the losing end of a New Year's Eve accident report drove me to run most the mile between the Brazenhead and the party house we left. I crossed the gurgling Olentangy, dialed off a few 2007 salutations and returned without incident to the house party where the night began. For the night, I felt the work did some good, as fresh, slightly cool air usually does when I exit crowded places.
Two days later, nerves fire in my lower legs with every footfall. Welcome aboard, 2007.
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