Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Morning Run

5:24am. My alarm goes off. It is time to get up and run. Rolling out of bed into the cold takes more effort than anything else I will do today. The soft, warm pillow, and feather-y covers cling to me, begging me not to leave. But that first foot manages to slip out and then I know I will run.
Pulling on my clothes, and lacing up my running shoes, I silently prepare for the icy outside air.
I open the front door and take the first step. Invariably, my aging body aches and my quads feel tight for the first mile. I have slowed my initial pace over the years, especially as I have moved my daily runs to the first thing in the morning. But gradually, the blood rushes to the working muscles, and the tight connective tissue lets go, and I feel the old, powerful kick in my step. It is the ice that slows me down now.
In the summer, I dream of cool weather, but in the winter, I dream of clear streets.
This time of year, it is dark for the first half of the run. Few people are out, and those that are live on the periphery of society--the homeless man looking for treasure in the garbage cans, the taxi driver killing the last few hours of his night shift, someone heading to an early job or walking a needy dog. We belong to the same club of pre-dawn risers.
I pound the proverbial pavement, icy and snow-covered. I run around the lake, feeling the cutting wind on the unsheltered side. My brain lets loose--no structure to its meanderings, just processing thoughts, ideas, feelings and frustrations. I look up at times, surprised to see how far I have run.
An hour later, I have welcomed the day, worked through some problems, and I arrive home, sweaty and rosy-cheeked. My muscles are sore, I quickly become chilled. It is time for a warm drink and a hot shower.
My morning run is rarely perfect, but it is always good.