Yesterday’s run started OK – legs tired and stiff, but I expect that for the first two miles anymore, given age, and the extra miles I’ve been putting in since work was curtailed by the Covid-19 situation. (I’m not discounting the social distancing we’re all following right now, by the way, but I’m fortunate to be able to run on streets and paths where keeping mucho-distance from others is really easy, and fresh air and sunshine are pretty integral to keeping healthy and strong, if you ask this dog). Mile three was back to normal but it was downhill (the wrong kind of downhill) from there, a struggle to complete even slow mileage as the ol’ gas tank was clearly on empty.
Turns out there is only so much work my body can take, so this morning I settled for a walk around a nearby lake amidst a wet late-season snowfall. Stepping off the path I so regularly run, I wandered to the water’s edge, where slush dripping from tree branches pock-pocked rhythmically on the water and geese eyed me with suspicion. Moving slowly and stopping frequently I could scan the sandy bottom, where crawfish shells rested and a golf ball hid from the clubs of any locals intent on practicing their swing.
Farther along I walked a sandy stretch I’m used to seeing filled with toddling toddlers in the summer, now silent and smooth except for the toothy imprints of my trail shoes. A smattering of saplings which have sprung up from the muddy margins displayed their graceful curves against a misty distance, and even the nearby highway noise seemed muted by the density of moisture-laden air.
Heading back to the house ready for some coffee and warmth, I felt a great appreciation for the change of pace, the sights and sounds and smells. Not better than another run, not worse; just different. And different is good, in almost all things.
“Infinite variety, infinite combinations.” Those Vulcans are no dummies.