Running

Fall is here (most days), and that makes me want to go running (most days).  Excuses about excessive heat warnings are not longer available, and the crispier weather lends itself to pursuits like yard-raking, bonfires, football games and running.

I've been indulging my yen to run several times a week.  It's always surprising to me after taking a break from running how wonderful it is to get back into it.  After years of running to train for a sport, I have eventually learned to run for the sake of running only.  And now I can actually enjoy it.  To be able to say that is a huge accomplishment for me - something I wasn't sure I would ever be able to do.  I blame that doubt on the whistles and the painted lines.

These days most of my running happens on a rails-to-trails trail about three-quarters of a mile from my house.  Having previously been railroad tracks, the trail's straightaways are long, its curves are wide, and its solitude is expansive.  All of these draw me.

Most of the trail is bordered by a windbreak of trees on either side.  This creates a nice, private canopy-like feeling.  In the places where there are breaks in the trees, I can see bean fields stretch silently away from me on both sides.  The quiet of these fields makes me happy as I run.

Some leaves are already starting to fall, creating a satisfying crunch along the path.  But the peak of fall color is still weeks away, and I am looking forward to it.

Sometimes, if I am lucky, I forget that I am running as I run.  Those are the really good runs - where I return exhausted but not frustrated, spending some time outside of myself while my body takes care of the work of propelling me without much input from my mind.  Those are the runs that help me sleep better at night, that clear my mind of the formatting and rephrasing and clarifying.

Sometimes the Beagle comes running with me.  Normally, he's not a big fan of running (preferring to snuffle his way along whatever trek we're on).  But on this trail, he must feel like we're chasing something - in fact, sometimes we actually are running behind retreating deer, skunks, or squirrels.  There are always smells of animals who have also been using the trail (the Beagle tells me so, I can't know this for myself).  So he must always feel like we're fresh on the trail for some wild thing or another.

This ever-present task keeps him moving forward, when normally he would want to stop and smell everything (and eat some things he shouldn't).  The problem then becomes asking him to turn around.  The Beagle would prefer to run three or four miles out and then be picked up in a golf cart.  I don't have a golf cart (or a personal caddy), so my preference is to run 1.5-2 miles out and turn around.  The Beagle often claims not to have gotten that memo.

I try (and sometimes succeed) to convince him that the trail he was following on the way out actually moves in the opposite direction - that the particular animal he was following is heading back to the trailhead - so that he'll allow me to turn him around and head home.

Let's suffice it to say that running with the Beagle is slightly less relaxing than running without him.  But I let him come sometimes anyway because I assume that it's good for him, and it's good for me to share the enjoyment of running with him.  To watch him trail a scent is akin to watching a painter paint.  It's a privilege to be able to witness a being doing the very thing it was made to do - the very thing that every fiber of its being speaks to.  That is the joy I see when I get to watch Maximilian run along a scent trail.

But when I'm running without him, I hit play on the iPod and just let my feet go without my interference.  There's no leash tightening to jerk my arm forward or back and no cursor floating mockingly in front of my face.  There are trees and birds and weeds and sky and the crunch of my footfalls as I move forward.

A Strawberry Story

I have threatened that when I grow up I am going to run a strawberry farm. This is not an idle threat. Having been to several u-pick farms, I have concluded that they are just about the most wonderful places on the planet. If I could own and operate one of those, I think it would be lots of fun (and hard work probably).

One of the many appeals of such a career for me is getting to spend time in the great outdoors caring for living things. Another is the (literal) fruits of one's labor.


But it's not always about fruit at a strawberry farm. A strawberry farmer has the freedom to dabble in other wares. These carrots and onions and greens look good enough to me to have come straight from Mr. McGregor's garden.

I have vegetarian friends who would simply swoon if they were to see a pile of veggies like these.

But back to the strawberries...

I think there is something inborn deep inside of us that makes us want to pick strawberries ourselves rather than just walking out of a store with berries picked by someone else's (luck) hands. And I think it is because they are beautiful like this one. Picking them doesn't require much strength or intelligence. You merely bend down, make your choice and pluck.

There is, I suppose, some discretion involved. But it's not too difficult a task to tell the difference between a ripe and not-so-ripe strawberry.


It is, however, difficult to stop taking photos of the beautiful berries long enough to fill a bucket with them. Maybe cameras should be discouraged on u-pick grounds. This berry appears to be oozing deliciousness.

I managed to tear myself away from behind the camera enough to begin to fill a bucket. After a few minutes, that looks like this.

Then - oops - it looks like this. Because that particular one was just too tempting to drop into the bucket after having it in my hot little hands.


Eventually (depending on how many times you stop picking to take photos), the bucket looks like this. The dreams of smoothies and desserts of the strawberry persuasion grows in direct proportion to the weight of strawberries in your bucket.

Then, you get home (maybe you eat a cone of strawberry ice cream first), and the strawberries look so wonderful in your sink that you have to do something with them right away. Waiting is just not acceptable.

And then, hey presto, you have something resembling this!

Anybody know where I can buy a strawberry farm? Seriously.