Runners in the Dark

I've taken three days off from running as I have rounded out my first year of PhD work here in Princeton. The mental exhaustion has presented itself as a prolonged case of apathy. But now that things are wrapping up, I feel like I may be in a position to finally gear up for better training and a reinvention of my training plans. The ultimate goal is to run my first half-marathon (though I ran at least 13.1 miles on a weekly basis during college long-runs) this fall. Now keep in mind that two months of that training will have to take place in Stuttgart, Germany where I will be undergoing my first summer of field research (of which I will write later).

What I wanted to share in this entry, however, is something pretty fleeting and precious (to me). This evening I was taking my dog out for a walk through the nicer parts (they really are nicer) of Princeton. There was a thin layer of fog settling in and silent flashes of lightning off in the distance as we made it back to the main road. It was then that I saw two runners passing by on the other side of the road. I saw them first, but it was as though the moment I recognized them was also the moment I really could notice them. The steady sound of rubber soles on pavement- faint but unmistakable- and a slightly labored breathing that spoke about miles traveled. They passed out of my sight quickly, but I felt an intense jealousy. Though I had agreed to give myself the time I needed to recover off of the last ten days of work, I couldn't help but feel like I had fundamentally disappointed myself again.

Before college I had become somewhat of a nocturnal runner. This was partly out of necessity as training during the day in the middle of July was nothing short of a desire to suffer endlessly, and partly out of a really pervasive case of morning sloth. I haven't been a morning runner since High School summers, and even then these were particularly the most painful runs I would do. So, after work (or after Scrubs was over) I'd lace up my shoes and head out on the roads at night. Perhaps to my mother's horror. But once I was out there I would fall in love with the run completely. The air would still be warm, but the sun's oppressive and brutal regime would be at its end. Shadows would be long and that dark blue sky would just start to form in the east. And the remarkable wave of quiet would start to build. That was the sweet spot. Traffic would dwindle away as people returned home and I would be out there with but a few wandering pedestrians or kindred spirits left. The trees along the bike path or roadsides would fill in with shade and suddenly everything more than three feet from me would be heavy and unreachable. I would hear my own breathing and foot steps without the din of the world around me. And if I chose to draw my attention away from my task, all I'd hear are those ambient night sounds that really don't require describing. After the runs I would walk around in ever shrinking circles on my street in front of my house. While I would have accumulated a small insect graveyard on my chest, I wasn't particularly troubled at that point. Instead I'd just take deep breaths and enjoy the fact that I was done.

Night running really represented something pure about the act of running. While I had always been in it to race, night running was that time when I came closest to loving running only for the simple act of running. I'd race past shadows and façades familiar only during the daytime. I'd be in the world without regard for my surroundings (don't worry, I was always safe) and instead really focus on my runs. As I get back to running, I often find myself doing evening runs out of procrastination more than anything else- but once I'm out there and the light dims a little, I think I get a little taste of that feeling I'm after. I think back on night runs in the Parisian parks or back home in Algonquin, and I really do think it all looks a lot alike in the dark. It all looks like me.