The Twenty

July 27, 2015

Greetings from the way back,

Every summer morning is a gift.  I love opening the day and seeing what is there. 

On Sunday morning I was going to see an old friend.  I was nervous, excited, and a little uneasy about how things might unfold.  I stood outside in the hour before dawn and looked at the stars, knowing that in a short while the sun would bake the world into a new recipe.

But this moment was refreshing. It was cooler than I expected for a July morning, and I noticed a low wisp of fog hovering above the grass.  Finishing my coffee I headed inside to get ready to run.

I set off under a canopy of gray.  I didn’t expect to see the thick layer of fog that had rolled in, but I knew once the sun was up and busy it would be pushed aside.  I warmed up slowly, running along the roads I owned in the predawn.  I listened to my body gossiping as I ran, various muscles and tendons grumbling about the miles I had already piled on this week.

Five miles out I know the temperature will change.  My little town, a knot of homes around a tiny main street, bookmarked on a river, soaks up the summer and holds the heat.  Out here, where the land opens up to farms sliced by tree lined roads, the temperature drops.  I can feel things growing all around me.

It has been almost three years since I have run Twenty miles.  I was not certain how that reunion would go, in spite of our decades of friendship.  There had been detours and forks in the road, and not every choice I had made was the best one.  And in a blink years passed and it was harder to reconnect.

The sun was up, it was lighter now, changing the layer of moisture to pale flannel. I ran past a farmhouse, stone porch, clapboard siding, surreal in the diffused light, as if Monet had been here ahead of me and wanted to leave some detail to my imagination.

I made conversation with the Twenty.  I told it my plans for today, but that I would be respectful and courteous, and I would abide by whatever it suggested.  It was noncommittal at first.

The fog held on.  I ran along two lane country roads, only a hundred yards of pavement visible ahead of me, the fields of beans disappearing into shroud, deep green leaves silvered by the sun struggling through the haze.

The uncertainty faded with each mile, my legs warming up to the work.  The small talk was over now, I settled into a more meaningful connection with the Twenty.  We share a long history, so there was a lot to talk about, and so as it is with old friends, time passed unnoticed.

Spiders created white hammocks among the reeds in the ditches, outlined by dew.   I ran by a line of a dozen large mushrooms, like parasols over commuters queued up at the bus stop.

The road split fields of corn, their tassels towering above my head.  The two lanes vanished ahead of me and behind me, running through this corridor of stalks; it was like something Stephen King would have created for a book cover.  The corn stood silent, but fluttered encouragement with broad leafy waves.

The Twenty, my candid friend, commiserated with me, but did not accept excuses.  Life happens, understandable.  Good that you are back, but there is still an investment required to maintain the relationship.  I tried not to be defensive, because it was right.

The sun worked to maintain its agenda, expecting to make a July morning, ninety degrees of humid Michigan summer.  But the fog would not give way.  It shielded the fields I ran through, coated my skin with a cool mist. 

Somewhere in the middle miles my body stopped commenting on the effort and did what it does best.  The fatigue faded, the aches became a different sensation.   I felt a confidence return, as if I had earned something I hadn’t realized I was working for.  The Twenty approved, in a conservative way, reminding me that we had survived as long as we had because I respected it, and remembered what can make runners humble.

We promised to stay in touch.

In the last dozen minutes I ran out of the mist into a new environment.  The sun had been hard at work, blazing in a painfully blue sky, burnishing the pavement, cooking the grass and trees.  I could feel the heat radiating from under my feet.

I realized that the fog had interceded on my behalf.  It held the heat at bay long enough for me to spend time with the Twenty, to ratchet up my confidence enough to make a commitment to that old friend.  You never know where your next friend will come from.

Every summer morning is a gift.   Each time I unwrap one, I find I am surprised and delighted.  Some offer a rose and orange sunrise, others a lawn of dew, chattering birds or star coated silence.  Some mornings give a moment of peace, others a challenging, sweat soaked romp.

And yesterday morning it was a rekindled friendship. 

Hope this finds you opening your gift,

David