In the land of the Suwaree, Brother Sun has begun climbing the morning sky somewhere around 6:30 in the morning. This, of course, is actually 5:30 in the morning but thanks to Benjamin Franklin’s lazy ass, we are led to believe that the sun will cross the meridian an hour before the sun crosses the meridian. Because of this, the land was barely touched by the rosy fingers of dawn as I departed Chateaux Sanuk this morning. Like many early morning runners, my first thoughts on departing were, “what the hell am I thinking?”
The sight of a tiny sliver moon slowly melting into the Eastern light was the first answer to this question. Not many people were going to get to see that. Nor were many to experience that strange conflation of cool temperatures and high humidity which allow me to run in colder weather with fewer layers. I hate layers. Or I hate months and months of wearing layers. This air came into my lungs in great gulps but did not grate my skin with icy rasps. Moving past the firestation, which lay in expectant stillness, I snuck a peek at my watch and determined that I must have been late in starting it.
Little white tools of the devil, buds of adrenal stimulation in my ears, competed with bird sounds and rushing streams as I left the paved road. Increasing light and decreasing traffic obviated my need for a headlamp. Passing out of a wood, I glimpsed the Valley of Love and Delight, its morning shroud illuminated by Apollos first rays. Through the mists, I spied a field of swine as still as the firemen. They did not stir at the crunch of gravel under my feet. Ribbons of steel ran from my back to my calves, propelling me forward at each extension. Passing another dawn harrier, we exchanged foolish grins of dopamine rapture.
An orange schmear was pasted across the Eastern sky as I turned toward my home. Fearing I might get lost in it’s glow, I threw out a returning salute with my head lamp. Saluting a cadet who was stretching in the parking lot, I checked my time as I passed the firehouse again. The chronometer had to be mistaken, because the pace it indicated was not consistent with the feeling in my legs. I should be dying, but I was in flight. Close attention during the last mile confirmed this, and I became grateful for all the misery which had come before. The only question is where to go from here.