It’s tempting to liken distance running to asceticism, especially when temps are over 90 degrees and climbs are approaching 1000 feet per mile. The Desert Fathers parched their tongues under a Middle Eastern sun; I’m in the San Gabriel mountains with my head low, dizzy and grinding out the grade.
Somewhere beneath the heat and sweat a silence takes over, a purity of being. My body doing what it was built to do; blood pumping, muscles contracting, lungs filling and expelling air. This is right. And it’s not always a struggle; I had miles and miles of smooth, quiet running yesterday, everything clicking, everything steady. No turbulence, just a mirror-like mind reflecting the world around me. Silence and solitude and breath.
I want to see the world before I’m gone. I want fresh trails rolling out before me, new vistas around each bend.