When the rain moistens the streets and the leaves limp and slick underfoot threaten  banana-peel humility I slap on a headlamp and chase the drops falling in its beam of light.

Three workouts in 36 hours. Not enough to outrun the deafening silence of still unfulfilled dreams.

Slick with sweat last night, no window open wide enough. Perimenopausal? Flu? Nerves? Restlessness?

We all have our reasons for running. Mine are no different and no clearer and no more mundane or less important than anyone else’s.

The hills slay me. I choose them. They are my poison. Post-marathon, there’s no training group and I am finally alone. I forgot how much I love to go inside – deep inside – when there’s no chatter and laughter and distracting us from 3 hours of tightening hips and growing blisters, averting our gaze from the boredom and the pain and the effort.

I love the boredom and the pain and the effort. I love the wet soaking through my jacket, I love dancing around puddles and the thrilling little shock of cold wetness on the toes. A surprise – I find a fresh alley, a new tree, a shiny streetglow under a lamp that wasn’t on at this time 3 months ago. I find a new insight, a poem written and forgotten before I see warmth again, a story plotted with characters and lost to the search for a bagel back in the cozy smallness of the kitchen.

I am naked when I run alone.

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