Isn’t it strange that for months one reaches the track, sees the fog, the ghostly light, the empty lanes, and feels a familiar sense of “oh god, now what.”
Months. The winter in February seems to last even as dawn makes its way earlier and seems to claw above its pay grade.
I just have to run. A few rounds. Maybe more than a few and then the track gets populated. A handful become a dozen. A dozen become a score. And soon the track is nearly teeming and the low hanging mist that looks like Halloween decoration becomes a bit benign.
And so it was today. I started alone – twenty minutes in – we were eight of us running lane nine – steadily, huddled, company to each other’s rhythm.
Writing about Running 