***

I’m off early from work this afternoon. I bused down to save time this morning, but it’s so gorgeous out. Traveling on foot is the only option on a day as lovely as this. This, of course, necessitates I trek up Queen Anne Hill. The walk is brisk, refreshing, and tiring. By the time I get home, I’m ready for bed.

It’s not the walk. Honestly, the walk is pretty short, so the hill isn’t the largest contributing factor to my fatigue. It’s more the fact that I haven’t had a day off since October 20th. I’m working two jobs now, and that means weekends may as well be unicorns or faded memories.

I plop down on the couch in my apartment. I planned on a run today, but now it comes to it, I don’t so much feel like running. It’s cold. I’m tired. It will be dark soon. I don’t want to leave this pleasant abode.

But I check the time and then peek out my window. Yes, it will be dark soon, but I still have plenty of daylight for a stunning five mile run at golden hour. Knowing the days will only continue to get shorter, and that the sun will likely become a rarity before to long, I shake my head.

“Nope,” I tell myself. “I can’t waste such a perfect evening.”

I get dressed, lace up my shoes, exit into the bracing evening temps, and quicken my footfalls before I have a chance to change my mind again.

***

I’ve developed a five-mile route that circumnavigates Queen Anne, without fully descending the hill. Today, I will attempt to reverse engineer it, running the opposite direction I ordinarily do. Today will be my second attempt at this. I missed a turn and shorted myself by a mile last time.

I’m cognitively absent for most of the run. Everything feels pretty robotic, in the very best way. I have a podcast in my ears, cold air in my lungs, golden hour in my eyes, and the sensation of stony pavement beneath the light pitter-patter of my feet. Nothing else really occurs to me on this run. Not really. And if any thoughts do cross my mind, I’m not really paying attention to them. At present, my headspace is firmly grounded in this singular moment: right here, right now. I simply experience each physical sensation as it happens.

Around every familiar corner, I’m faced with newness. The way sunlight hits these trees warps and bends in such novel expressions, casting unique shadows; it pins me down in anticipation of what fresh visual delights await me down the next block. And the next one. And the one after.

My feet striking the sidewalk in rhythm serve as the metronome to my breathing. These wonderful minimalist runners from Skora laced to my feet have nearly three thousand miles of running on them. The leather uppers are crusty, fraying, and threaten to separate from the soles, the thinning rubber of which similarly groans in complaint as these shoes near the end of days.

Perhaps both soul and upper will disintegrate in united protest one day while I’m out on yet another run. Perhaps they will together throw in the towel and leave me out in the cold.

I cherish these shoes. I feel everything in them. And today I take note of each and every message the soles of my feet send my way.

***

At more than one point, I see views of Mount Rainier, Puget Sound, and the Seattle skyline. I pause at a few of these vistas to take it all in. The sun creeps doggedly toward the horizon, his weakening pink hues betray he is losing the fight. Dusk is on rapid approach. I hurry my pace in hopes I can outpace the sunset.

I return home at about the same time as the sun takes his leave for the evening. And would you look at that! I even managed to make enough correct turns to complete the five-mile route in reverse with commendable accuracy. And now, I reflect on the challenge both of today’s run and of running through this time of year in general.

The days are short, cold, and dark. It’s difficult to find motivation. Depression is easier to come by. But damn it, a great run can still be had, even with winter breathing down my neck. Today is a perfect example. I have yet to regret a run taken, but I certainly regret those I’ve skipped.

And as I stretch, I scroll idly through Instagram. A running page I follow posts an apropos writing prompt: “What moves you to run in the winter?”

I ponder the question. It’s a good one. Sometimes I don’t know exactly what moves me to get out the door and put those miles under my feet. But then, if I think about it honestly, the answer is a simple one.

“The thought of spring moves me,” I say to myself.

And that thought is a microcosm. Often, the only thing keeping me going is the abstract thought that things will be better eventually. Life is dynamic, ever-changing, unceasingly mutable. If I can simply hang on, simply trust the temporal nature of all things good and all things bad, I’ll have won a small victory over my propensity for despondency.

I don’t know if it works like this, but part of me hopes that such a victory will build mental and emotional momentum. I hope it starts with running and snowballs into a cascading avalanche of stick-to-itiveness that will carry me through whatever winters may come and batter my soul.