The Long Run

Photo by Tom Robertson

The woods are staggeringly still. A light scratch of gravel beneath my feet and a rhythmic breath are all I can hear. A black dog whose fur flashes silver in the breaking sunlight, darts through the thick underbrush to my side. The tall pines frame a choppy stream of images in my periphery, like a silent scene from an antique film reel.

My body moves without thought; running requires no conscious control. Once set in motion, legs find rhythm, the mind relaxes and the trail guides the feet.

It takes time to enjoy running. But the more I run, the more addicted to the sensation I become. Running has begun to feel like flight and as free as a falcon, I will run.