Running Before Dawn

The air is cold, a mite bitterly so, as I step off the sidewalk to start my run.

I have just hit the "Start" button on my phone timer and put it in my right pocket, my house keys safely ensconced in the small zippered pocket on the left side in my new blue cold weather running pants, a sort of upgraded yoga pants with "wicking material action" for those that go outside in such times.  It, along with the fancy new running shoes that are hitting the pavement (more than I have ever paid for a pair shoes; the pants and shoes brought to me by a corporate reward program that gives gift card cash for doing certain health things), carry me along as I head out of the parking lot and into the street.

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While I had started running in the Fall, I had let it slip down to a walk every morning.  But general Iaijutsu training, combined with a desire to not have a repeat of the 2023 Mt. Goddard Hike and resulting altitude sickness, has led me to picking it back up - if I cannot gain endurance by regular hiking at altitude (a challenge at the moment), at least I can gain lung capacity by running.

The weather here is off-putting to doing such things, the cold and rain enough to dismay even long-time residents, let alone a new transplant. But as friends here have told me, the weather is what it is:  you get the gear and go out and do the thing.  Thus the new pants and shoes.

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My running tends to take place between 0600 and 0640 in the morning: early enough that most traffic is off the road and still gets me back to my apartment with a comfortable interval to perform my remaining shower, breakfast, and blog reading/writing/responding.  That conveniently means that it is also dark; I like running in the dark (as opposed to light) for reasons that I cannot fully explain other than perhaps it helps me think as I go.

Another change to my running (versus my walking) is that I run without earbuds.  Sid Garza-Hillman in his book Ultrarunning for Normal People does the same; he says it helps him think and be creative.  I had noticed the same thing when I walked without such things and now find the same thing with running.  Many things over the last few weeks which have turned into blog posts have started as a thought as I ran through the cold, dark mornings.

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Sid makes another suggestion in his book, that mileage is more important than time (at least for trail running) and thus one should not feel the need to keep track of time.  Just run and keep track of distance.  As a person who is a slow runner at best, seldom have I read more welcome advice.

As a result my runs look more like leisurely jogs, at a pace where I could hold a conversation if I had to.  If I had to guess, I am losing a little bit of "time" by doing it this way, but the sense of not being rushed in my efforts more than compensates for any sort of loss of an imaginary goal of mile splits that have no meaning outside of my head.

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I am fortunate that I live in a planned development - as a result, I have level, well kept roads and lights pretty much all along the path.  It is a bit of struggle to feel out mileage, as I do not have a clear read until after I have completed my run and my I-phone catches up with me.  As a result, figuring out how much and how far has become an exercise is add streets and blocks to my run, then calculating the results, then adding some more on.

This remains the perfect time to run: traffic is low with only the occasional early riser out and driving to work in the neighborhood.  It is also fairly quiet; to the East one can hear the busier main road and occasionally the light rail bells break through as the train pulls in or leaves the station.  Beyond that it is just myself and my breath as I run.

Even in what is effectively the dead of Winter and cold (current lowest temperature run in is 32 F), the natural beauty continues to astound me.  With the amount of rain and the lack of sun, fog has become a feature of late, its tendrils drifting up to the sky and catching in the full moon and few visible stars through the bare trees.  It takes my breath away - or at least what is left of my breath as I run.

Even in the midst of physical effort and cold and dark and civilization, one can still find elements of beauty and wonder.  And so I huff on in wonder, feet pounding the pavement so loud that they seem to be the only thing I can hear as the mists wander through the cold morning air seeking the sun.