The morning was cool and foggy. I was with a small group of 3 other runners from the Early Air Running Club. We were keeping a decent pace, a little behind the lead group but managing to keep ahead of some stragglers. As we made our way along Main Street, the club's elder statesman and resident Economist (Bong) and I were chatting (well maybe it was more like he was chatting and I was trying to keep up). In a kindhearted effort to distract me from my struggle, Bong challenged me to admire the foggy road we are running along and write a description of it in my blog. I accepted the challenge and below is the result of my valiant effort. I, of course, took a few liberties with the accuracy of the account, mostly due to simple forgetfulness but occasionally in hommage to the Early Air Running Club tradition of embellishment for its own sake.
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It takes a concerted effort for me to pay attention to the surroundings when I'm running, particularly when I'm about halfway through the Saturday morning long run, today measuring about 12 miles. I am much more inclined to pay attention to the dull ache in my quads and shoulders (I know my running form needs some work) or consider whether the tightness in my chest is the first sign of a heart attack or the just the remnants of a hard upper body workout the previous morning. Sometimes I attempt to calculate my projected finish time given my current pace and remaining distance, but math and running are a hard combination. This morning, however, Bong provided a more interesting distraction. He turned toward me and gestured in front of us.
"Tim," he began, in his Korean accented professorial tone, "Look at the foggy road ahead of us. Look a the street lights and how they glow in the fog. It is beautiful this morning. You should write about this."
To develop the picture just a bit more, I'll mention that Bong is a 72-year-old South Korean man who might weight 110 pounds soaking wet. He is gliding along next to me, exerting as little effort as if he was strolling in a park. If recollection serves, he was either running easy because he was nursing a calf injury or because he liked running with the ladies in our little group... might have been both. Bong is capable outrunning almost any of us on most days and he's generally well ahead of me at this point in any run.
I look over at Bong and, in my somewhat cardio stressed and mildly oxygen-deprived state, reply: "Is that..." [breath, breath] "... a challenge..." [breath] "...Bong?". In the spirit of full disclosure, while I was responding to Bong I was simultaneously considering which excuse I could best use to convince the two women who were setting the pace for our little foursome to slow down without losing too much of my masculine dignity in the process...
Bong continued to reassure me "You are a good writer Tim. You should describe it in your blog". I looked at Bong, running a half step ahead of me on my right and I asked myself how it can be that Bong didn't even seem to be sweating. Thoughts do not always follow straight lines during the long runs...
I considered Bong's proposal. At that point in the run, I was pretty sure that if I mentioned both "chest" and "pain" in the same sentence I would earn a walk break of a block or two, but I also knew that a comment like that could also open another discussion I was looking to avoid. So I opted to just distract myself from the physical exertion by embracing Bong's challenge. I shook my head free of (some of the) cobwebs and looked around, and started paying attention to my surroundings so I could write about them later.
The road is typical of the main street in many small towns. The wide black macadam surface rises slightly and falls mirroring the contour of the gentle hills common in this area. The road is marked to allow two driving lanes in each direction with a center left-turn lane bordered by the requisite, recently painted yellow stripes. Both sides of the road have a sidewalk running in front of the line of small shops, gas stations, a few small professional offices. Every few blocks there may be a 1940's style, square, multi-story apartment building that had seen perhaps some better days but some of which are undergoing some significant renovation.
We are, as prudence would dictate, running in the road against the direction of traffic. There is little traffic at this hour of the morning, but the drivers that are on the road always seem to be in a hurry and distracted. As a runner, paying attention to these drivers is important. We could run on the sidewalk, and occasionally do, but that requires a runner to be more cognizant of foot lift and placement. It's common for a grey slab of cement to have settled into at a random angle as compared to its neighboring slabs or for a portion of the sidewalk to have disintegrated into a crumble of stone and cement dust. Either could ruin your day if you failed to see and adjust for it. The footing in the road is generally more predictable.
The section of Main Street we are running along is straight for several miles. We are running west and the sun is just beginning to overcome the darkness as it crests the hills in the east. The black macadam of the recently paved road rises slightly in front of us presenting an entrance into a tableau of hazy white fog, colored traffic lights, and the deep black road surface. I begin to see why this had captured Bong's attention. I don't recall ever noticing so many traffic lights before, their red, green and yellow lights layer into the distance, visible through the light fog like lighthouse beacons in the early morning twilight. We can only see a few blocks ahead before the fog thickened slightly into an eerie translucent curtain that seemed to retreat as quickly as we approached. There are runners from our group ahead of us, but they are on the other side of the curtain and unseeable through the morning mist.
On either side of the road, the fog is like a white and grey canvas behind the buildings that stand as the focal point of a painting. The heightened attention to the tableau brings details of the building architecture to my eye in ways I had never noticed before. Many buildings have simple orthogonal corners and utilitarian plate glass windows in front but I also notice an old church to my left with it tall brown, majestic steeple topped with a cross and then, next to it, an old house-turned museum with a black iron fence separating it from the sidewalk. Its large stone front porch, rounded tower corner, and slate walkway give it the look of a small castle fortress.
As we run past some more traditional office buildings and a derelict house, I noticed that the air is damp and nicely cool. My long sleeve running shirt was wet with sweat and this works cooperatively with the slight breeze, just perceptible, drifting across my arms and chest, carrying away the heat being generated by the exertion into the morning dew. I'm neither too warm nor chilled, just comfortable.
We pass along in front of Danny's Diner on the left. I've never eaten there. I'm told it's a nice oldfashioned diner. It is certainly a unique structure, clearly a diner. I think Danny is making preparations for the breakfast crowd as we pass. I can smell the distinct aroma of fried bacon and, though my mind may have added it all on its own, I just knew rich black coffee was ready to be served. All of a sudden I was very hungry and a swig of Gatorade from my hip flask just didn't seem to quite hit the spot. I promise myself that I earned bacon this morning and was going to make sure I received my reward.
After a half of a mile, my ability to maintain attention on anything was depleted. I knew there was only a mile and a half left in the run and I turned my mind to a fantasy of the bacon and eggs I would enjoy after a long hot shower.
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Well, there you go, Bong. How did I do? It probably still needs some editing, which it will get over time. None of my writing is ever really done. Now it's your turn.
