There are times.
In those first few minutes of a run, feeling out my body with the pursuant stiffness borne of almost 54 years on Earth and almost 90,000 miles on my feet, I'm reminded that the best way through is often to relax and flow.
There are times.
Alone with my thoughts, skimming
the ground, squirrels barking and late-morning sun gleaming through the
swaying trees, I am at once lost in time and yet as full of life as
seems imaginable.
There are times.
Under a blanket of early-morning stars,
the soft cadence of my auto-pilot shuffle gives way to a special
euphoria that is all its own.
There are times.
When I let it go — really turn up the heat and see what the legs have in them — I am for moments back in my mid-20s and completely engrossed in every breath, every push-off, every landing.
There are times.
Running with buddies and chatting up a storm, laughs become air and hours become minutes.
There are times.
Up in the mountains, when a beautiful leaf formation or a small creature will happily divert my mind from the intensity of the Pain Cave's second floor.
There are times.
Out for a short run in my little town, I get so involved in the cavalcade of conversation going on inside my head that I realize I don't know which street I'm on.
There are times.
Awash in the beauty of movement, I land on a clarity that satisfies my hope and makes every dream seem touchable.
There are times.
In the dark of a 24-hour race or late in any of the nights at Three Days at the Fair 72-Hour, I am moving along all by myself and yet feel strikingly close to whomever happens to be on my mind.
There are times.
Somewhere in the fifth hour of a long, long training run, fatigue takes a back seat, everything falls neatly into place and I am ever so thankful that running found me.
