Run

The Road called to me this morning.

I have been meaning to begin running again this year - both for health benefits as well as the discipline of doing it. I've no illusions I will ever run a marathon, but I sit enough on a daily basis as it is. I like running as I like all the physical activities I do: they can be done individually or in a group. I am hardly a "team" sport guy, so running is perfect: minimum equipment, can be done whenever, wherever, alone.

The difficulty, though, is the fact that the time I have to run is early in the morning - I am therefore fighting the double curse of probably not wanting to and conveniently "finding" that I am still in bed.

But I was up this morning -up and had nothing to do. And the Road called.

As I started to get dressed, Syrah the Mighty looked at me. She had slept terribly all last night, and so was with me (and I was up because of her - convenient) as I got dressed. You could see the logic chain in her head as I changed and got my shoes on. The Tail of Doom started wagging in wider and wider circles (the tail of which has been said it could lay low 16 stout warriors) as she waited for me to make the move - the move to the leash.

Fine. Here's the leash; let's go.

The morning is brisk as we step out, in the mid-fifties - hard to believe it 20 F just a week ago. The morning sky belies the warm sunny weather we had yesterday, giving a cast of that fake cloud weather, fog, creating a dome of light-tinted clouds from the city beneath. To those who have never had high fog it appears as clouds; only those who have dwelt beneath it before can know what a false impression of weather it can give.

We're off: I always have to pace myself with Syrah the Mighty and be more aware than ever - not only of where I am stepping but what she is doing. She's been known to jerk sidewise; likewise, she'll stop in the middle of a step (and right in front of you) to smell something -and because she's black, you'll not know it until you go over her.

No traffic this morning: Good. This is one of the reasons I prefer running in the early morning rather than the evening. Cars and headlights break the meditative sense of running in the early morning dark.

First Turn: The surrounding world is quiet, lacking the sounds of the traffic that will come in only a few hours. The damp gutters hide piles of leaves that Syrah trots through as we make the first corner, the water holding them together so they don't crackle

The Lady with the Beautiful Garden has left her outdoor traffic light on all night. I don't know who else sees it but I do: Red, Yellow Green off the grass and the blacktop as I round the corner.

Still seem to be doing pretty well. My left knee is hurting me - a bit. A reminder of age, I suppose. I didn't use to have this problem.

Next corner: back onto the main drag. Downhill, which is always benefit. Do I only do .7 of a mile (I haven't run in weeks, you understand) or do I go for the full mile? Feeling pretty good - right turn at the longer route, the street Syrah and I walk every night. I actually have to do very little: she knows the way.

As we curve around and down, I notice how many other interior lights are on. I wonder (as I always do) briefly about the lives of the others that have these lights on: why are the up, what are they doing, are they happy. All these people, everyone of them having a lifetime of experiences just as I do. To think about it too long is to become existentially lost. Perhaps I'll just run instead.

The air is cool on my warm skin, the downhill wind feels good. This is perfect running weather: it feels like I could run like this, in the cool early morning dark, forever.

Almost stumble: Syrah is pulling on her leash, ears erect, trotting as if to run. I strain to look: there, across the street and in the court beyond, the small form of a cat scoots across the cove. Syrah continues to pace eagerly; she'd tear off if I'd let her. I pull back a bit; she gives up until another day, and around the corner we go.

Final leg: uphill, my least favorite type of run. Not as many lights here. Hop over one or two morning papers as we do. I try to read the headlines under the plastic wrap but the wrap reflects and the print is too small anyway. I shrug: I'm sure if it is really important, I will hear about it soon enough.

Home stretch: I'm amazed at how many people have their porch lights on. It's not as if we live in a neighborhood where there's a high level of fear. Why, I wonder, do people leave their lights on: Fear? Laziness? Hopes that someone is coming?

Last turn up the cove: This is where I usually break into a sprint. Usually. But it's early, it's my first run, and I need to make sure everyone inside stays asleep for another 1.5 hours. I'll take it slow.

Fumbling for the keys (maybe that's why they leave their lights on?), I get inside. The coffee I cleverly left brewing is waiting for me as I enter, its enticing aroma welcoming me back. There is, I decide nothing better that warm coffee after an early morning run. Syrah gets a drink then promptly plops down; she'll be sleeping for another hour as well until the sounds of life signal that breakfast is on it's way.

Final distance: let's call it a mile. Final time: Who knows? Maybe 10 minutes, maybe 15. I never time myself Final feeling: Good. Surprisingly good. The kind of good that makes me want to do it again tomorrow.

So good, in fact, I should do something else. Like write a post...