perfect run

This morning's satisfying, memorable workout reminded me of why I love pre-dawn long runs.  Out the door by 5:45, I followed a course that more or less draws a square with four ~five-mile sides, north to east to south to west.  The college town where I live sits at the base of the pre-foothills of the Appalachian Range--to the South and East is a coastal plane; run just a mile North and the roads begin to undulate; five miles north, you gain about 300 ft. of elevation.

Forty minutes into my run I was northbound on a rolling rural road that wound through woodsy tree cover before, at the top of a high hill, splilling out into the middle of a broad meadow.  The sun was shining bright over distant hills and coloring everything verdant.  The long shadow of my stride fell on late April grass, marking the contrast with the intense green, and the spreading sky was as big as I've ever seen it here.

I generally hate to wax sentimental about running and unity with nature but today I can't resist; the dawn, the view, the perfect damp cool--almost transcendental.  The workout itself was a hard 21 with lots of hills.  My legs are fried, but afterwards I went to Whole Foods and treated myself to three of their breakfast burritos: uno bacon, and dos huevos rancheros.  Indeed, I do love the Whole Foods weigh-and-pay-buffet--the latent white-trashiness ot it (pardon the classist phrase) kind of warms my heart, as it is essentially a bourgie McDonalds: fast food for the Prius set.

But back to running and nature.  I've been getting out the door by 5:40 lately, not because I'm especially ambitious but because I've been jetlagged and numbingly tired by 8:30.  Dawn in springtime energizes you, and it allows you to see the full spectrum of light that a day can bring, and even to observe how different light can be, and how different the most familiar of places, the most familiar running routes, appear depending on time and the seasons.  Two days ago I felt like I was in a Disney cartoon about the first Thanksgiving.  Every mile or so I seemed to startle a different group of deer; the sparrows were out in force; and a pair of wild turkeys, puffed out with their multicolored tails spread, fiercely warned me off as they fed on someone's lawn.  Wild turkeys are big, fast, and agressive, and I can see why Ben Franklin wanted them to be the national symbol.