Run Forest Run!

This is for all you runners out there who take the winter off (and sometimes post-partum summers).

Last night, Dan and I pulled into our home. Five days before we left having just started some lettuces under a cold frame, potted some seedlings, the trees just beginning to give some sap. In short, if it weren't for Dan's weekend of theology and me and Ana's weekend with Yi and Gramps, we would've stayed and doted over everything. Now we were back to our home full of hope. But, the seedlings hadn't germinated yet, the trees had given but an inch of sap, and the cold frame was still cold under the clear, starry sky.

Three hours in a car will twist my back into a swollen mass of tissue. So, after we assessed our projects, I pulled on my running gear and headed out into the still night air to do what I needed to do. Run. The night was calm and black. The half-frozen grass lit by a near full moon.

Most runners run in the morning. That thought sends shock waves through every muscle in my body. I've tried it a few times, heck, even trained for a half-marathon in the morning. But I just can't get into that rhythm. At night, the birds sleep, everyone is winding down and looking forward to bed. The world closes down, except for me. I get it to myself.

It was only my fourth or fifth run of the year, but the night air exhilerated me so that it could have been my thirtieth. Chugging along, one foot in front of the other, my mind unfolded, as it usually does. I pondered the land around me, ready to be worked and seeded. The smell of animals thick in my nose. The cool air filling my lungs and loosening my back. The sound of gravel and dirt grinding under my shoes.

At the Bloome farm, I turned around and started to realize that I was beginning to hurt. Ah yes. I am not in shape after all. One foot in front of the other. There's something about not being seen by anyone that allows me to tune out the hurt in my body and lets my mind spill over. Was I a good enough mother to Ana that day? Why was I so short with Dan when he was just asking me a simple question?

Our farmhouse approached. The lit windows punctuated the night with an orange glow. A mile north, a train whistled through Green Valley, dogs answered with whines. They continued to talk to each other long after the train has left. Then I remembered that even in August, the tenth mile feels the same as the second. And the second mile really doesn't feel much different then as it does now. If I can just keep going, I will be fine.