Now that the days are lengthening—and the dangers of slippery sidewalks have receded—I’ve ambled out for a handful of runs.
My loop is just shy of three miles. I could extend the mileage by adding a few more blocks (to date, I haven’t felt so inclined); I could shorten it if I was running low on time that day (I hadn’t thought of that until now—best if I forget this option altogether). For now, this route serves me. It’s the Goldilocks of work day breaks: long enough to feel like I’ve gotten away from my laptop but not too long as to interrupt my productivity.
Sometime last year, when the gyms shut down and I re-took up neighborhood runs, I recognized the rectangular, and therefore segmented, nature of my route: 4 lengths, 4 corners, 3 left turns. This is thanks to the gridded nature of my neighborhood—which you, too, will get to appreciate now that we’re on this journey together.
Let’s start at corner 2. It took me an embarrassing amount of time to realize what I previously called corner 1 is actually corner 2. Indeed, corner 2 is my first left turn, but by then I am well into my journey; I’m committed to the run and truly my only choice is to keep going.
As for corner 1? It’s the starting line: the first step where I change from casual walk to intentional stride. It is, inarguably, the hardest corner to get to. The one I’ll resist the most on some days; the one I’ll underestimate on others. To call it anything but corner 1 would undervalue its significance.
Anyway, it’s usually right around corner 2 when I start to realize the challenges of that day’s run: I ate too late; I didn’t drink enough water that morning; I drank too much wine the night before; my hair tie is starting to slide (the worst); here come the dog-related fears thanks to a chorus of barks (Are those dogs tied up? Will they jump that fence? Will they cross that 4-lane road to chase me?). Of course, some of these challenges are within my control; others are the unavoidable hazards of exercising the old fashioned way.
Somewhere between corner 3 and 4, I take a break. I catch my breath, let my heart rate slow, and gear up to finish the last third(ish) of my run strong—arguably, stronger than I would have if I hadn’t taken a quick breather.
It’s often during this break I think about what I could do better next time. As in, next time I will drink more water at breakfast, pick a better hair tie, and/or turn my music up to drown out the choruses. And though I iterate these small modifications each run, without fail a new challenge will present itself. And along with it, a new opportunity to make an adjustment on the next run, too.
Of course, I’m writing to you from post-corner 4—that is, the walk from the finish line to my front door—as I relish that small window of time between I went for a run and I should go for a run. For now I’ll soak up the endorphins of having run (and thus, having written!) until the next time I face corner 1.
Supplemental reading: What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami
Like Mr. Murakami, I’m ever-aware of the intersection of running and writing. If you are too, I suggest you pick up his memoir dedicated to it.