The 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.
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.