A Winters Tale

There is a time when the best thing we can do is run through the darkness.

It is an act of faith. It is a statement of trust to run through the night.

We trust our memory of the terrain. We trust our memory of the twists, the turns, the curves, the rise and the fall of the path.

It is a flowing moment of liberation.

Why we run is a winter’s tale.

Sometimes when we run we run toward things.

Sometimes when we run we run away from things.

Sometimes, I would say the best of times, we simply run because we can.

I left the ranch about eight p.m. I had spent the day idly and felt the need to run rising as the evening overtook us. I dressed warmly, in layers, so I could peel them off as I went.

It was a short jog out of the ranch yard to the road and I turned north. It is a mile and a half along a relatively straight road to the mailbox.

I started out slowly, moving at an even pace until my eyes adjusted to the night. The world was cast entirely in shades of silver and gray. Once my eyes had adjusted to the night I could make out the strand of the road, light against dark.

I kept my paces short to keep my feet underneath me, to keep my balance centered, to land surely on each foot.

Aussie ran alongside me, ranging ahead and behind, coursing back and forth across the road.

Somewhere to the east coyotes were howling. I could see occasional fields of stars amid the mostly overcast sky.

It has been a long time since I ran through the South Dakota night. Time folded into itself and those moments joined with these. The run took on that timeless sense that all good runs do. Something surrenders into the purity of the moment.

I reached the mailbox and turned for home. My pace was faster, surer, covering the road I had covered moments before. I picked up the pace, felt my legs starting to burn, felt my lungs drawing in the sharp cold South Dakota winter nights air.

Aussie pulled in close to me on the run home. The pace was fast enough that when he ranged from side to side he got left behind and I could hear the rapid pace of his paws as he would rush up behind me.

I pushed myself hard when the yard lights of the ranch approached, lengthening my stride running with speed through the darkness. The approaching yard lights began to affect my night vision, I could feel it fading.

Some, as I approached the ranch, I was running at speed through the darkness, trusting entirely to my memory of the terrain I had just crossed.

My memory was flawed.

Not badly, but enough.

Just at the turn of the ranch road I hit a rock. I good sized one, slight domed, a sudden solid strike. It did not break my stride but I felt the blow. I slowed down and took the last quarter of mile at an easy pace.

I was limping by the time I reached the ranch. I went inside and stripped down. I took off my shoe and checked my foot. Tender, but nothing broken – just a solid blow in the darkness to the bridge of my foot.

I am sitting here now icing it and feeling that soft throbbing.

Every moment of the run was worth it. Sometimes we run simply because we can. Sometimes we pay a price because we decide to run, because we decide to trust, because we run for the sake of running.