Run, Forrest, Run

WP_20150917_09_28_21_ProThe other morning, about 20  minutes into my 35 minute run, I realized as I dodged the puddles and mud at the edge of the narrow road, that I’d seen exactly two cars while running.  And so I moved to the center, ran along the crest where the road was dry and smooth, and just sort of sailed.  It’s not often in my running life I feel like the road is mine, but I did that morning.

Then I had to move to the side to let a rider on horseback have some space.  Which, you know, was kind of cool too.  (You can just put that on the list of things I did not encounter in any of my runs prior to moving here.)

I don’t really like running.  I’ve said that before.  But, as I’ve also said, I like wine and beer and bread and cheese, and so I run. 

I’m not fast.  I’m not pretty.  And I don’t even run that far — 3 or 4 miles on an average day.  In general I view running as a necessary evil.  I don’t truly enjoy it, I’m not that great at it, but it’s a means to an end.  (The end being wine and cheese.)

Here in England, though, running hasn’t been such a chore.  It’s sort of chilly and completely not humid and most days it rains a little bit.  Basically perfect running weather.  And then there’s the scenery. WP_20150917_09_07_24_Pro

A few mornings here, I’ve actually lost track of the time as I’ve run, and suddenly I realize I’ve gone a mile and half without paying attention to my breathing or my runny nose or the pain in my left knee.  A minor miracle I can only chalk up to this being the view.

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I’ll probably never love running.  But occasionally I don’t hate it, and that’s good enough to keep me going.

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