Interrupting starfish

Have you heard the interrupting starfish joke?  If not, ask me sometime, and I'll tell it to you (or find a 9-year old and ask him or her).  

On my last several runs, I have been the interrupting biped to three or four deer standing peacefully along the trail.  Each time, they seem singularly unconcerned with my approach.

The trail is covered in many places with fallen leaves so that as I run along, I don't even recognize the deer blending in with the fall browns until I am already fairly close.

At that point, I become aware of the subtle white edge of their drooping tails.  They are so unconcerned with my approach that they stand, watching me come nearer while their tails hang down in calm.  Eventually, they turn their dark eyes on me, flip up their white-flag tails, and silently step down off the trail, in no particular hurry.  They disappear into the brush before I get to the spot where they stepped down.

They make no pretense of not being aware of my inferior running ability (even among other bipeds, my running ability is inferior) and do not perceive me as a threat.  Perhaps they can see that I do not run with a rifle.

And that the Beagle would rather roll in the leaves than chase them.  Actually, that's a lie - he would definitely rather chase them.  The deer must understand that a leashed beagle is a safe beagle (when the biped he is running with does not carry a rifle).  

Last night as I ran, I watched my tall shadow fall to my left onto the thin line of brush and trees that separates the trail from the farm fields.

For the record, this is not to my left but to my right.  But it is the only photo I have of the line of brush and trees.

A while ago the fields looked like this.

Then this.  

And then this.

And now, the fields are empty.  Empty of their crop, at least. Now they are full to the brim with cool, dusty air.  The cool, dusty air that flows in and out of my lungs as I can't help but think of how it does so differently in birds' lungs and how my metabolism is turning certain things into certain other things and how my muscle filaments are ratcheting against one another with each step and how no normal person should be thinking of these things as she runs.

And then I hear "Into the Mystic" in my ears, and my brain shuts up and listens to the music.  And the air hanging over the empty fields is just cool, heavy air.  And the birds are just birds.  And my muscles and metabolism are just affording me movement.     

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.