Bookends of the Summer

This morning was seriously cold. I bundled up for my run, pulling on items of clothing I hadn't worn since June's trip to Scotland. On went the headband to keep my ears warm, the red fleece cap, running pants, two layers of tops and a fleece jacket. Last week I'd been sweating hard in a sleeveless running top and shorts. And now it was 44 degrees with wind so fierce the flags were standing out straight. I didn't feel overdressed until I'd nearly completed my four circuits around the cemetery--2.8 miles. It was Edinburgh cold, that shocking cut-through-you chill we experienced on our trip at the beginning of the summer.

I pay attention to my internal dialogue, maybe because I spend so much time by myself. This morning, what I heard in my head as I started the run was an enthusiastic "fun!" reinforcing the fact that I've really become a runner. Maybe I'm still basking in another milestone set on Saturday, the longest distance accomplished without a companion--10 miles. Running this morning reminded me of cross-country skiing, working my body hard in less than wonderful weather, but experiencing the sheer joy of being out in IT.

This morning I remembered having an internal dialogue just before that trip to Scotland, the day I'd started packing those cold weather clothes, the day I was in El Paso to exchange dollars into pounds. Mere steps from the border, sweating and thinking I might buy one of those locally-made cantelope popscicles, I caught myself thinking in Spanish. That thought pleased me too, feeling I'd passed some milestone of assimilation.

Saturday, I got a call from a fitness camp friend who reminded me of an upcoming meteor shower. (Thanks Michael!) I stayed up hours beyond my bedtime and drove out to the pecan orchard and parked the car. The moon was very bright and I was far too tired, as it turns out, to be patient waiting for the shooting stars. But I did listen to the animals, coyotes howling, dogs barking, and sounds I did not recognize. The air was cool and clear, like one of those end-of-the summer nights in Iowa, a soft breeze coming through the open window. Some nights we would wake to the sounds of animals fighting, horrible, desperate sounds. It was clear that even in that in the most human-altered land (as agricultural land is) nature really doesn't belong to us, especially at night. In most respects we kid ourselves when we think we're in control.

It got chilly after awhile and I headed home. I'd had a big run that morning after all. So I turned on the ignition and the headlights and drove back to town, chasing jackrabbits as I made my way down the dark road.