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Show cows, horses, pigs, goats, and llamas. In several years of running, I had yet to meet another runner on the road. Instead I envisioned the local farmers a bit shocked to see another soul awake for the milking. I knew the skunks were always surprised by my appearance; rather than scurry into the brush, they often sat and watched me pass. When the random truck did appear, fear rose in me, and if the driver slowed, usually to say hello, to let me know that my reflectors worked well, or to comment on my dedication, it was all I can do not to sprint away. In the winter, the mornings were pitch dark. I could see little and what I did see was by starlight, moonlight, or the simmering dawn at the ridgeline of the mountains. Many times I asked myself what I was doing out there when it was two degrees above zero, snowy, and dark. While there were few bushes for naked men to lurk behind, I had added packs of wild dogs and rattlesnakes to my list of things that waited in shadows. Running has taken a physical toll on my body as well as an emotional one. The marathon left me with an ache in my hips that especially hurts in damp weather. I buy new shoes every few months to help cushion my knees, and I take longer to stretch in the mornings. Still, I run more than the distance of a marathon every week. Six miles, forty-eight minutes. I have counted my footfalls enough times to know that they are the same every day. No watch, no water, no mace, I carry only the memory of other runs. While there is very little that will prevent me from starting out, there have been several mornings when I have turned around mid-run. Unable to make myself go any further, scared by an abandoned car, a shadowed sage that seemed to move, the fact that the one and only street lamp has burned out, I head home early. These are the mornings 232 |
