****

I wake up early. I've committed to a long run. Part of me regrets that commitment; part of me is grateful for it. And fortunately, I've spent the past two days preparing for this one.

I head out the door a little nervous. I plan to run longer than ever this morning. Well, my longest anyway. I certainly won't be breaking anyone's records, but my own. I leave the house and start on my route. I have about a half an hour until sunrise so streetlights illuminate my path. I aim for a nice slow pace to allow myself some leeway during the latter miles of the run.

The first couple miles are pretty consistent. The pace is decent and I feel pretty damn good. Nothing jumps out as challenging, no tightness or sore limbs, just fluid mileage passing underfoot. A few miles in, however, I take turn and begin my descent down a rather steep hill through through a nice residential neighborhood.

Gravity, inertia, and pavement take their toll. My left quad tightens and my stride feels off balance. After several blocks of a pounding descent, I return to level ground. I manage to rein my chaotic stride in, returning to a point of robotic stasis. The fragility of this run instantly becomes clear to me. I need to stay ahead of my own weaknesses. As this occurs to me, I catch sight of a pier and realize, "This run must be enjoyable if I am to survive it." I decide to lighten the mood. I don't have anywhere to be so I run down the pier, chasing pigeons as I go. A smile finds its way to my face as the joy of the run returns to me. With my headspace free and clear of anything overly serious, I exit the pier, rejoining my original route.

The next several miles pass without noteworthy event, but sunrise appears and gradually gives way to golden hour. The warm light radiates all around as I arrive at Point Defiance: a local park with a great little system of trails as well as a pretty expansive beach bordering Puget Sound.

I run alongside the water until the paved path ends and I find myself on the sandy beach. The softness of the ground slows my pace, but tenderly comforts my sore feet. I press on, ducking and weaving in and out of fallen trees and driftwood. The tide is high so I don't get far before I have to turn my attention to the trails. I stop briefly to enjoy a gorgeous view of the low-hanging sun out across the water. My left foot feels subpar, but I'm only ten miles in at this point; I'm not ready to call it quits. And anyway, I'm too far from home to be afforded the opportunity of throwing in the towel now. I retie my shoes and call it good. Time to get back to it.

Departing from the beach, I scurry up a narrow trail that disappears into the woods, I claw my way to the top of a steep hill and come to a much wider (and muddier) path. My left quad is upset and makes sure I'm fully aware of its great displeasure.

At this point, I'm reminded of my earlier realization: “This run must be enjoyable if I am to survive it." I move my thoughts from the tightness in my quad and the pain in my foot to the beautiful trees around me. I focus on the moss glowing green in the sunlight. The air is crisp, but not cold. I let it fill my lungs and experience each breath more fully. I feel the soft mud beneath me cushioning my tired joints, protecting me from the repetitious impact.

I meander aimlessly through the trails, taking turns at random as the woods call out to me. Only my whim and whimsy prompt me on which trails to take. There is no method to the madness. At mile thirteen, I realize I could easily expend the rest of my fuel in Point Defiance. If I want to get home, I should start in that direction now. I gather my focus and set my sights on the return journey.

As I exit the park, I notice the pain in my left quad and foot again. It doesn't seem as though I'll be able to shake the sensations this time. I surrender to the pain and let survival mode take over. Enjoyment is a luxury I can no longer afford. Efficiency will have to do instead.

I settle in for the final seven miles (the distance of an entire run on some other day). I keep the focus on my stride: improving it where I can, rolling with it when I can't. To keep my mind from succumbing to the fatigue I feel, I set my gaze up ahead of me. I run towards the rising sun now and the gentle breeze keeps me cool as the sun warms my skin. But all the pretty scenery in the world isn't enough to stave off the inevitable decay of my physical prowess indefinitely. The closer I get to my apartment, the longer it feels I have to go.

Finally though, against the pain in my lower left appendage and the exhaustion in my lungs, I arrive safe and sound. I immediately begin my post run routine and apologize profusely to my poor left leg, telling him we won't be doing that again for another week. If he hears me, he sure doesn’t seem grateful. Even so, I just finished the longest run I've had to date. Let my legs and lungs complain all they want; they've earned it.