Usually I don’t include tree-climbing in my workouts. However, yesterday, I was wearing my lightest, nylon cape and running along at a pretty good clip when a big gust of wind hit. My cape blew into a tree. It was just out of reach, so I had to climb the tree.

As I was wondering if the branch I needed to walk on was strong enough to hold me, I saw Petra running. As she passed by, I said in my best computer-generated voice, “Speed limit 25. Slow down immediately.”

She stopped and looked around. It took her a couple seconds to spot me in the tree. “What are you doing?” she laughed, coming over.

I explained the situation, and asked if she knew of a reputable cape retrieval company. She said she didn’t, but knew of an ambulance service that responds quickly to tree-climbing accidents.

I got my cape and climbed down.

“You know what’s weird,” Petra said. “You’re the third person I’ve seen in a tree during my run today.”

“The first two must have been kids,” I said.

“No, they were adults. But they weren’t trying to get something like you.”

“That is odd,” I replied.

“Well, have fun on the rest of your run, Jim. Hope that cape stays on,” Petra said.

“Thanks, me too.” I put my hand out and we shook. Our grasp lasted longer than a normal handshake. Then my hand slid slowly past hers until we did a fingertip grasp until finally parting. Her Wonderfulness began running and I just stood there watching. Halfway down the block, she glanced back. I didn’t even care that she caught me staring hypnotically. I gave her a wave.

I am so moved by her. To be at her side would be the greatest thing to happen to me.

Those really white legs shielded from sun since last year, which are now causing eye damage, were out in profusion last night at my running club’s 4.4-miler. A couple guys let me snap a photo of their legs, but their case is pretty mild compared to others. But it was white legs that got me realizing I’ve undergone a transformation.

It has been gradual and slow, but I’ve become around 50-55% female.

Besides sucking the color out of skin, winter sucks the moisture too. I used to never hydrate my skin, but now after showering, I do my legs, face and elbows without fail, in winter and summer. When I was married, I gently chided my wife about all the bottles of creams and lotions she had. Now I’m the one with a cupboard full of stuff.

My hair used to be so oily, I could wring it over a pan and use the oil for frying. Now my hair’s so dry, I have to use conditioner. and styling gel. I spend so much time in the bathroom that by definition, I’ve become a woman.

At least I long ago gave up one thing that most guys used back in the day – the blow-dryer.

My friend, I.P. Aard, who works at the National Institute of Running Sciences, was at a conference in Seattle last weekend. She rearranged her return flight to spend a night in Spokane. It always makes me feel good when women go out of their way to spend time with me.

I never met I.P. in person, but we’ve talked on the phone a lot, and I’ve watched videos of her presenting at seminars. She’s considered a top expert in her field even though she’s only 33. At the same time, she is very familiar with my work. She told me she was in the audience at a two-hour seminar I gave a year ago to a packed house in Denver demonstrating techniques to avoid getting hit by bird poop while running.

We went for a run in the morning with a few friends of mine, and I snapped a picture of her, at right, after our run. I spent the rest of the day showing her around Spokane. In the evening, we hung out at my place, watching the new romantic video, “I’ll Meet You at the Beach for an Interval Workout.”

“So, I.P., why do you go by your initials instead of first name?” I asked as we shared a Popsicle when the video was over.

“I just don’t like Isabella that much. It’s too long. Plus, when I discovered I.P. Aard is so similar to “I PR’ed”, I thought, perfect, I’m going with that.”

“I’ve always wondered what’s going on with people’s names at the Institute,” I said. “Last week I was talking to Ayer, and he swears that’s his real name.”

“Ayer O’Beck? It is. Why would you doubt it?”

“Come on, I.P. Ayer O’Beck? Aerobic?”

“You’re right,” I.P. said, glancing thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I never thought of that.”

I.P. took the Popsicle from me and ate the last bit. “So, where am I sleeping tonight?”

“I have a spare bedroom across the hall from mine.”

I.P. sat back and folded her arms. “Spare bedroom…hmmmm…is that my only option?”