In my fat days (ten pounds ago – the most I’m willing to let myself go before committing seppuku with the same knife that’s preparing whatever I’ve been shoveling into my face), I always thought it might be fun to do food reviews. Or hotel reviews. Or maybe even reviewing that one annoying OnDemand narration that loops every 20 seconds while you’re trying your hardest to get to this week’s Vice before (god help me) that one Disney pop singer clip comes on.

(Looks like he’s doing all three at once.)

But, as I’ve gotten healthier (being poor is an excellent segue into eating less and getting skinnier – and getting skinnier is an excellent inspo for eating healthier altogether to stay that way), that’s become less alluring. I’ve stopped enjoying a variety of spiced up, salted down, and sautee drowned meals. I don’t like my shiz adultered; so I also don’t like trying new dishes that are all essentially the same as each other, except with a different excitotoxin glaze layering it each time. But you know what I do like? Trails. New trails. Not hiking – but jogging them. And I feel like I’ve seen enough other joggers (unfortunately – I prefer to have the forest all to myself) during my excursions to know I’m not alone. For this reason, I feel like “trail jog reviews” should be a thing. Because I’ve tried both hiking and jogging these expansive terrains, and you know what? It’s almost like visiting two different worlds. Running’s so vastly diff from toddling along with a stick, that once you get into that flow, you’re operating with an entirely different toolkit. I realized that this past couple of weeks when my #30daysofnewthings technically ended and I subconsciously carried on the novelty torch via – what else but – driving to Pluto’s fifth moon in search for the perfect path to christen with my kicks. And, as I’m now a card carrying member of Prince William Forest Park, you can bet your ass I’m gonna be writing about them side bishes.

Mind you, I call them my sides ‘cause my outta-town trails are truly like my hoez in different area codes.

I’ve got my bottom bish – my local stone’s throw away go-to who I love. She’s my wifey. My stride or die betch. I’ve learned many a great lesson from her about how shittily I’ve been commandeering my body ship and my mind – and how to fix both. But then, over a town away from me, I can head once a day to get me some strange. It’s brilliant, really. And now, I get to share all of these beauties with the world like they’re girls at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch.

Starting with…

Turkey Run Ridge (1.4 miles)

(Looks simple, doesn’t it? Protip: your eyeballs are liars.)

Biggest plus: There’s a decent amount of greenery and the latter half of this trail passed by a stream.

Biggest disappointment: Once I hit the first road, I thought was done; I’d only gone just short’ve a mile.

Second biggest disappointment: I didn’t see any turkeys.

Third biggest disappointment: Me – I was in a rush and didn’t finish.

Turkey Ridge was annoying at first. Starting off a run with copious hills is vexing at best. I always think at the start of a downhill jog, “Oh, this’ll be fun coming back” (that’s why I like loops better) But, as this carried on for a good bit, I came to realize how beautiful a reflection of life itself this was: Good day. Dreadful day. Rarely ever an in-between day imbued with Buddhist-level unattachment zen existence. Similarly, the zen that was the plateau stretch of flat jogging was equally rare – but quite welcomed (and earned) once I’d achieved it.

In sum? I give this curvy girl an “A” even though I didn’t bring my “A” game and thus reach the climax. (#zing)

(Now sprint over to e-jog Death-precipice-South-Valley and Deliverance Country Trails with me)