Oh my thoughts, I return to summertime.

For some reason, shortly after 9/11, I found myself reading Camus’ The Plague. I got about a third of the way into it and had to stop. Just had to. Couldn’t take the depictions of quarantined cities and feelings of terror. The apocalyptic subject matter.

Today, five years later, I find myself two-thirds of the way through The Stand, Stephen King’s apocalyptic epic. Weird. Plenty of quarantine. Plenty of terror. And it hits close to home. Especially today.

A few weeks ago, I ran the inaugural New York City Half-Marathon. It was a really fun race, beginning in Central Park and winding its way through midtown and Times Square, before heading down the west side into the Financial District and finishing up at Battery Park—in view of the Statue of Liberty. Despite being soaked to the skin (it poured that day) and suffering the resultant body chafing and bloody nipples, I pretty much reveled in the experience. You know, not something I get to do every day.

But as we headed downtown, the buildings of the Financial District looming directly in front of us, I had this very distinct, horrible moment in which I envisioned that we, this mass of runners, were running not a recreational race, but running for our lives. Again.

It was kind of...terrifying.

But then I cleared my head, and became instantly grateful that it wasn’t true. And this time, Battery Park was full not of ash and dust and debris, but, well, water and Gatorade and...popsicles.