Sunday runs

There can be no doubt; my favorite runs are Sunday long runs. My favorite days are when I get up with a loose list of things to do, and manage the time for the day as it rolls along, with a rhythm of its own. The window for the Sunday run tends to come later, and it's sometimes the only day of the week this happens in a relaxed fashion. If the timing is right, I am heading out the door in a late afternoon sun, just before shadows are getting long, but the warmth of the day, if too oppressive, has come down. The promise of evening is sneaking up and traffic is light; it often feels as though I have the roads to myself, and I am the only runner in the world.

Yesterday I meandered up to Stirling to get over to 64th and the Seminoles. I switched out to the Asics and they felt great! light as feathers; with no hitch or hobble, I cruised along, fast-paced to the ipod, over the 441 intersection, the overpass, making the left into the reservation. The mile of road back to Sheridan is a lovely flat-out straight stretch and I took it at a fast pace. I thought about taking the side road west for a bit, another lovely stretch, but decided not to push the leg too much. Everything was going well.... I sang to the music, I practiced breathing; my legs were moving smooth and easy, and one more overpass took me to John Williams park for a break. I decided to meander back by Thomas, which would take me, one block at a time, all the way to Park. It's a good way to practice the pacing, strides, farleks, whatever you want to call them. By the time I took this last road, the shadows had come up, and the cool winds were chilling me down nicely...the colors of the sky took on rich, muted tones of cerullean blue and orange, and everything had a crystaline feel to it.

I get to the last miles and begin to feel the achiness, but by now I don't really care. The magic has taken hold and I am altogether different. It is flying by now, as automatic as if my feet were leading me on. I am not thinking, not feeling, I am sensing the way a bird must sense the entire sky and his place in it, angling against the stars or the moon. I feel the weight of the earth as a great ball sliding under me, pressing up as the air pulls me, arm and arm, into the last turn, the steps home.
When I stop and begin adjusting my gear, it's like Alice and the looking glass...I have stepped back into ordinary reality but there is always a bit of magic I bring along. These Sunday runs are my gold; they feed the spirit in me that is opened and allowed to run free, ready to tackle another week where I can reach out to those who are finding their wings, and the ability- to fly.