This morning I ran 8 miles. That’s worth writing about. I don’t mean to toot my own horn, although I am proud of myself. Eight miles is the longest I’ve run in my entire life. I ran cross country in high school and the longest run then was 7.5 miles. I remember feeling like my femurs were coming out of their sockets. Here lately, I’ve been working on increasing my mileage. I worked up to where a 5 mile run was pretty comfortable. I’ve done a few 6.5 mile runs. Last Saturday was 7.6.

I don’t believe there’s really a need to run this far. It’s not the most practical thing ever. I actually think it is more important to be able to run fast for a short period of time – i.e., to outrun an attacker or a rabid dog or to catch a plane on time, whatever the case may be. How often in real life do you need to run 3 or 4 miles, even? Training to be able to run two or three blocks at a 6 minute mile pace – now, that’s pragmatic. And painful. Yesterday I ran 2 miles at a 7:09 pace and then did 5 half-block sprints in intervals. My quads are sore today.

I believe it’s important to enjoy life. I find that a long run (3 miles+) at a slow/comfortable pace is the most fun. I love running and taking my time. Yes, there’s occasions in which it’s nice to compete and to try to get a fast time. But I really enjoy treating a run like a walk, taking the time to enjoy the outdoors, listen to some music (or not), to think, to pray, to look at houses, birds, and water.

This morning I set out around 6:40 am. The sun wasn’t up just yet, but the sky was transitioning from black to dark blue to more light blue. Spring has officially begun. I embrace it. It’s about 55 degrees out, a tad cool but not cold. I wear my black shorts and two shirts, a long sleeved one over top a short sleeve one. The birds are heard both near and far – robins and small warblers over my head, Canadian geese in the distance flying over the water. Though it’s dark out, I smell the blissful fragrance of flowers in bloom. A foreign-looking couple walks by and we say a quiet hello. I get to the corner and hit the “START” button of my purple Casio watch, the one my husband bought me as a wedding gift back in 2013. It’s held up well, better than all my other watches. I really love it. And my husband.

I love the sound of the “pat-pat” or “click-click” of running shoes on pavement in the early morning. The sound gets overpowered by the traffic once I hit Tidewater Drive. I’m reminded of the hustle and bustle of the day. People drive frantically to and fro, powered by caffeine and sugar, debt and fear too, I’m sure, to get to their jobs or wherever they’re headed. Surely no one would be out driving this early in the morning if they didn’t have to be. They probably say the same about me – surely no one would be out running this time of the morning unless she had to be.

Cars pass by me just a few inches away, going 40 miles an hour. I’m reminded of a car accident that happened yesterday, a block from where Richard and I used to live. The car was flipped over, the driver ejected. He died at the scene. I think of how fragile I am, running down this busy road in the dark. I hope no one is texting or otherwise distracted. Half a second is all it would take for me to be hit and my life forever changed. I do think about the risks, having lived long enough and witnessed enough to not believe the lie that I’m invincible. I’m a sardine in a sea of Great Whites. All the reason to keep an eye out and move faster on this stretch of the run.

Going over the bridge is always fun. The sky lightens even more, to a light blue and soft pink. A tree sits on the edge of the water. I don’t know what its called, but it makes me think of Jesus. It has a wide, curved trunk and green leaves. It makes me think of Galilee and of Zaccheus. Jesus spent time by the water. I think about Him. His love and goodness.

I jog past DePaul hospital where I was born and used to work and am thankful I don’t work there anymore. I wondered for some time if I would die there too. I’m told it’s now closing its doors, so I guess I don’t have to worry about that. Unless I’m hit by a car on my run.

I run through the Riverpoint neighborhood and admire the lofty houses there. I wonder how many people select homes based on their impressibility factor – will their friends be impressed when they pull up to the driveway? One of the homes is tucked behind another and has a modern architecture look, with large glass windows in the front. I think it would be cool to live on the water.

Several other runners are out and about. One is a blonde woman moving pretty fast. She looks like a girl I knew in high school. Some people walk their dogs and I think about how I wish my dog would walk better in the neighborhood instead of sitting so much. But I still love him.

I run down Newport, behind the high school. There’s a few people running on the track. The sun is a big dull, yellow ball coming over the horizon. A short, bare tree stands in front of it. I snap a picture with my phone and send it to Richard later. He responds that that’s what he used to see every morning when he’d walk to school. He used to live right across the street from that track.

I jog into a neighborhood back off North Shore Road. I take a shortcut, because this run is getting long. A young man hobbles on his foot as he walks through his front yard. I can’t tell how old he is but he looks about high-school age. I wonder if he sprained his ankle playing a sport. That happened to me a few times. I wish him a speedy recovery.

The houses back here aren’t as cool as the ones in Riverpoint. These are more Brady Bunch style. They’re brick, set low to the ground, and long. I see the sun room of one that’s jammed full of clutter and it makes me cringe. I’d like to go in there and throw everything away. Sever any sentimental ties.

Later, on North Shore, a thin African American man (I think he’s a city employee) is kind enough to stop weed eating as I run by, even though I move to the center of the road. It was kind of him and I wave and say thank you.

I jog by the bus stop on Granby Street. An overweight white man in an orange shirt sits in his blue electric scooter. An African American woman stands in front of him. I wonder if they live at Cromwell House, a place for lower-income seniors. It’d be tough to rely on public transportation.

I cross Granby and run down Suburban Parkway. Jogging past Norfolk Collegiate reminds me of coaching the basketball girls. I’d like to do that again. I run past the old home of my best friend from high school. There’s a new Subaru in the driveway. A handicap placard hangs from its rearview mirror. A wide, black wheelchair ramp winds its way up to the stairs, like a maze of senescence ending in an old, familiar home, purchased and lived in years ago during healthier and happier times. I hear from my father that my friend’s father has suffered quite a decline in his health over the years. I remember seeing my friend’s father and mother at our high school basketball games. They were such loving people and upstanding in the community. They both held professional degrees – he as a judge and she as an attorney. She stayed home to raise the kids. I remember staying a night at my friend’s house and eating dinner with her family at the table. Her mom made delicious nachos. Her father sat at the head of the table and read Scripture allowed. We prayed and shared the events of the day. I felt oddly welcomed and honored, to be at the table in this loving home.

As I approach the house, I look up and see where my friend’s bedroom used to be. I remember being up there with her some 16 years ago, studying geometry or writing some essay or reciting Spanish vocabulary. She was a lot smarter than I was – in the advanced math and science classes. At least I could sort of keep up in the language department. We worked so hard in school and in sports. I can’t help but wonder where she is now. It’s been close to 10 years since we’ve spoken.

I get out to Thole Street and approach Tidewater Drive. I see from a distance that the road is blocked off. This causes a moment of panic for me. If I can’t go through, I’ll have to loop around, which will add another 4 miles to my route and possibly make me late for work. I see the concrete next to the railroad all mounted up in a heap. A large yellow work truck moves about and a backhoe sits off to the side unmanned. Two burly men in white hardhats eye me. I stop jogging so they won’t think I’m a flippant passerby. I ask if there’s any way I can go through their work. One man tells me I can, either to the far left or to the far right, just to stay away from any machines. I thank him and opt for the far left, crossing the tracks and coming uncomfortably close to the unmanned backhoe. I try to be speedy through here but keep an eye out for construction equipment that could take me out. Remember, I don’t want to end up at DePaul. I get to the other side and think about how exhilarating a long run can be.

I take a right on Tidewater Drive and again hope that the drivers beside me are paying attention. There’s a well-worn path of dirt that I stick to. Then I have to cross an interstate off-ramp. I yield for a tractor trailer.

I approach Widgeon Road and see the tantalizing billboard that boasts Panera pizza. I’m 7.5 miles in and fasting. But eh, I wouldn’t want pizza this time of day anyway. I notice the cars stopped at the intersection, more morning traffic. I wonder if I inspire any of the commuters to run, or work out at all. I wonder if any of them even see me. The answer to that is an apparent no, as I can see the majority of them are looking down at their phones or staring blankly ahead. I like to think I inspire someone to work out.

Toward the end of the run there is a hill – as much of a hill as one can come by here on the coast. It’s an overpass. I make a straight shot to it, knowing that running through the grass will leave me with soaked shoes. That’s okay. I power forward. Suddenly I feel like I’m almost out of steam. My stride shortens and my legs feel heavy. I pump my arms and lift my legs. I remind myself I’ll get to the top and then get to go downhill. The downhill is a pleasant break, construction’s gift to me as the slope nudges me effortlessly forward. I come to the entrance of my neighborhood, past the stop sign and to the left. I stop and hit “STOP” on my Casio.

I feel amazing. Eight miles at an 8:43/mi. pace. My hairline and back of my head are soaked with sweat. My legs are tired. My heart is happy. I feel I can conquer anything. It’s 8 am. I walk about half a mile as my cool down. The birds rejoice as the sun rises. This would be the time I’m required to run fast. Thankfully, no one is chasing me. I walk slowly back to the house.

Running makes me glad. My body feels detoxed. I’m reminded that so much of my life is here, within this eight mile radius. The place I was born, the place I used to work, my high school, my elementary school, my preschool, my best friend’s house, the old gym I used to work out in. Running reminds me of the past and makes me think about the future. I’m grateful that I can run. I think about God and realize how small and vulnerable I am – a sardine – yet loved and protected by One who is all knowing and all-powerful. I feel honored to be a part of His creation, as my running is almost synonymous with the birds singing their songs in the early morning – living, enjoying the day, worshiping – simply doing what I was made to do. ~