There’s poetry in running. Not the oft spoken “runner’s high.” No, the poetry is in the moment, the sense of place and being that I inhabit on the road, in neighborhoods, in lonely and in-between spaces, through city blocks and along the trail.
It’s in the intimacy of quiet neighborhoods in midday when everyone is at work.
It’s in the intensity of training, with an eye on the goal and a resolve to press on.
It’s in the awakening and the unfolding energy of the early morning city. Over whitewashed sidewalks, by stirring shops awakening, dodging, unloading of trucks, unfurling of cafe tables and chairs, Running beside beginnings.
It’s in the solitude of the open road through those uninhabited, in-between spaces, between neighborhoods, along country roads, outside of the city. I catch a glimpse of that which is still wild, uncultivated and am aware of breathing, rhythm, motion.
It’s in the company of partners, come together, encouraging and competing, all bound up in the strange tension of companionship. Talking, breathing, silence, measuring.
It’s in the brooding aloneness, yet not loneliness, of a familiar path as the spring storms approach. When sensible people are inside, warm and dry.
It’s in the hot & humid night air, like sediment swirling around the track lights. Past the evening walkers. Speed, rest, Faster again. And again. And even the water is warm.
It’s in the crunch of snow underfoot, glistening, like little prisms whispering some hidden secret. Quiet and cold. Each breath visible, although numb. Pressing forward for some prize that exists only in my mind.
There it is again. It’s presence, rhythm, cadence, flow. Of breathing, of strides, of sounds and sight. There is a place there, just in front, yet out of reach, but in plain sight. I focus on it and am drawn toward it, always just a few strides away. Always moving. Aware of everything, yet focused. Moving always forward towards an inevitable end.