Hey, it’s me, the closest trail to the metropolis, and I’m begging you to take your midlife crisis elsewhere.
Every week, a fresh crop of you forty-something corporate marauders comes on pilgrimage like I’m your personal Annapurna.
I’m a two-mile gravel slope with a play area, Carl.
You haul up to my “trailhead” (a.k.a. the Jiffy Lube parking lot) wearing six hundred dollars’ worth of tactical nylon, looking like you’re about to audition for Outward Bound: The Musical.
The sippy straw of your inevitable hydration bladder quivers next to your budding jowl.
What is it, can’t risk twisting off a bottle cap at this altitude?
There are ZARAs taller than me.
And put those hiking poles away. It’s a 5 percent incline. You could have done this in Crocs.
You inhale richly and muse aloud that you love being off-grid, as the lights of a 7-Eleven glitter in the near distance.
You’re about as off-grid as the Times Square T-Mobile.
Did you know Uber Eats delivers here?


