My dad was barreling down The 405 (Southern California seems to be the only place where people precede the number of the freeway with the word “the”) at 75 miles an hour. Traffic was moving smoothly underneath the cloudless blue sky and swaying palm trees, past the green-brown fields, and over the ten-lane speedway. A freight truck was in front of us, rolling along around 65 miles an hour. He stepped on the accelerator and swiftly passed the long, lumbering, rolling box.

“You know,” I commented, squinting, “over the past seven months, I’ve been in all four corners of the country.”

“Uh huh,” he replied, rolling down his window some more. The warm morning air flowed through the car.

“I was in New York in September, I live in Seattle, I was in Louisiana in March, and now I’m here [in Orange County],” I continued, looking away from the glare bouncing off of all of the cars on the road.

“Hey, that’s true,” he answered. My eyes wandered to all of the SUVs rumbling past us. I almost had difficulty tolerating all of the sunlight.

It was chilly at the bus stop this morning in Seattle. The rain started to fall as I watched those few dedicated runners take to the streets before dawn greeted the day. By the time I set foot on the tarmac in Southern California, I had shed two layers and wondered when I last used sunglasses.

I’ve only purchased two copies of Runner’s World in my life; both copies originated from airports. And I read both copies from cover to cover while on the planes. My restriction of movement on planes prompts me to seek the other pole—if I can’t run, I might as well read about it.

At least that’s how I justify it to myself. After all, the best way to learn about running, I think, is to run. All the shoes, GPS systems, heart rate monitors, energy bars, Coolmax socks, and other shiny distractions probably don’t contribute as much to the experience of running as actually doing it. (There is an interesting article about the state of political affairs in Kenya in this month’s issue.)

My flight was delayed and, thus, I had read most of the magazine by the time the plane actually took off. Slumber coaxed me into her arms. I finally regained consciousness over Yosemite National Park.

“If you’re sitting on the left side of the plane,” the pilot drawled, “you can see the Merced River and Half Dome—it’s that patch of snow.”

Writers often describe rivers as “ribbons” from afar. And, indeed, the Merced River looked like a delicate, shiny, burgundy ribbon twirling through tree-covered mountains. And there was Half Dome, a small blotch of white amongst a uneven canvas of brown and green. I recalled my last visit to the national park. I wondered when I would go there again.

Soon, the Central Valley filled the screen that was my double-paned window. It looked like a mosaic, a tiled floor with squares and rectangles of many different colors. They all interlocked with each other perfectly, as if the entire valley was a agricultural game of Tetris. Though I-5 (people do not precede the number of the freeway with the word “the” in Northern California, a fact they frequently point out to people from Southern California) was not in view, I recalled my ~450-mile commutes through the Central Valley during my time in medical school. Though road trips have their merits, I felt grateful that I no longer do that. (There isn’t much to see but those same squares of fields on I-5 in the Central Valley.)

The plane flew a graceful loop over the Pacific Ocean before its jostling landing. Though Seattle sits on Puget Sound, it is breathtaking to see the seemingly endless expanse of the true ocean. The spring Sun generously sprayed its blinding glitter over the never-ending blue waves. The plane gradually flew closer to the undulating surface of the water, so close that I imagined that I could run my fingertips across the crests of the blue waves if I could stick my arm out the window.

“Every single time I return to Orange County,” I said, “my perception about it changes.”

My dad laughed. “What do you think of it now?”

“It really is a suburb,” I replied. “And there may come a time when I may like the suburbs, but, for now, I really prefer cities.”

“Yes; Orange County is truly a suburb,” he said. “But, you are moving to New York City soon.”

We both fell silent. The wind continued to rush through the car.