runholden

I had no idea what I should write today, but I found this...whatever...in a notebook of stuff that I wrote over the past few years...It's admittedly crap, but it does bring me back to a MUCH simpler time and place.


I decide to go out alone today. I usually do when it is raining. The rest of the guys typically want to go short and stay on the logging road and the bike path where it is less messy. Today is no exception. As I break from the group just after we leave the field house. They go left down the logging road toward the bike path and P loop. I go straight toward the cornfield and my favorite run.
I am only a quarter mile from the field house and I am already soaked. Luckily it is a warm day and the driving rain is not too cool. It is the type of day that will cause my hands to ache and turn red when I get back to take a warm shower. These are the types of days that I live for.
The cornfield is predictably muddy and if I glanced down I would notice that the insides of my claves have turned black as I clip them as I stride. My legs from the knee down are also slowly getting covered with a thin layer of black muddy water. It will run down my legs and collect at the top of my socks, leaving a ring of silt around my ankle that must also be scrubbed away in the shower.
By now my hair is also soaked. I run my hand through it and notice that it is lying flat against my head. I take a second to wipe a small bead of water off the tip of my nose. My vest and the gray under it are plastered to my body. I was fortunate to get a good gray today; Not a new thick one, but one of the old worn ones that we all covet. I will have to remember to keep this onetrading in one of the new ones that I have stashed in my locker for just these occasions. My shorts too are saturated and they cling to my legs as I stride along the perimeter of the fields. I learned very quickly to avoid sport hills on rainy days, as the several pounds of water that they will absorb offset any warmth that they might retain.
My pace quickens, as I turn left at the top of the cornfield and head along the edge of a small meadow towards the trailhead. The trail just past the meadow is wide and muddy. Wide, because it is not far enough away from campus to protect it from the mountain bikers and the walkers and those who wish to do things away from the watchful eyes of Public Safety. Muddy, because it is always muddy in Maine on my favorite trails. The snow of winter and the thaw and rains of spring make the ground wet and spongy. But the mud here is different from that along the road in the cornfield. There the mud is dark and black from the material that is put down to preserve the dirt road. It produces an artificial, black, thin, slippery mud. The mud here at the start of the trail is real mudorganic. It is light brown, thick, deep, take-your-shoe-off-if-you-are-not-careful mud. It even smells like mud should; Fresh wet dirt. Its good stuff.
About a mile from where the meadow the trail starts to get narrowerfew normal people travel this far out from campus. It now seems to dart haphazardly from left to right. I remember my first run on this trail as a freshman how I struggled to keep up with the pack for fear that I would get lost somewhere in the middle of the labyrinth. This is the point where the mud typically dries upas the tall pine trees offer some protection from the rain. This is also the point where I tend to lose myself and start to fly. I know every ankle rolling root and rock on this section of trail. I could run it blindfolded and still land on the safe ground between the roots and hop over the fallen tree and weave around the old rotting stump in the middle of the trail. The freshman hate this trail, us veterans love it because it feels comfortable.
This place also seems to be so quite. Maybe it is the sound dampening properties of the fallen pine needles or the fact that the rain has difficultly reaching the ground here unobstructed, but it always seems so quiet. Even on rainy days, you can hear birds and squirrels here. And this is also the spot where the albino deer likes to hide until you are almost on top of her before she suddenly bounds off in a knee-buckling explosion of white fur and motion.
But today, it is not sunny and I am focusing on my breathing. It has picked up as I have picked up the pace. I always run fast though this section, but today the tempo is good and my breathing is quick but comfortable. My legs feel good as they work to keep me from tripping over sticks and hop over little holes. There are no feelings of fatigue or strain. They feel strong as I drop the pace a bit more and enter a section of younger trees. The trail narrows so much here that when I stray from the center the branches and leaves of the trees brush against my arms and legs. The leaves cling to any exposed skin as I run pastI am so close that I can actually smell them. Their smell blends with that of the pine needles and mud. Together that smell becomes my definition of forest or nature.
Now, the small grove of trees is behind me and I have come into a small clearing where two trails converge. This spot reminds me of the redwood forests in Washington or Oregon. The pines here are huge and straight and the bark is almost red on sunny days. And the foliage at the base of these giants becomes a vibrant green in the summer. Today though the colors are more muted because of the rain and overcast skies. The pine chips that are spread across the ground in this section of trail also give it a unique feel and smell. The feel is that of a sponge: There is a bit of give with each foot plant, followed by a slight rebound effect. And the smell of the wood chips reminds me of those cedar-lined dresser drawers. Even today, with the rain to deaden its potency the fragrance lingers for several hundred years down the trail.
The trail has become a mix of mossy hills followed by flat muddy sections of trail. This section goes by relatively quick though and I turn onto another logging road. This road takes me back to the tarred bike path that I loathe so much but today I am content to follow it the 2 miles or so back to campus.
One last right turn off the bike path sends me back across the football practice field and past the ROTC tower. The grass here is short and slick and I have to shorten my stride to keep from slipping. The final hundred yards consist of an access road that runs along the outside of the outfield fence of the baseball stadium. The road is littered with potholes and tire tracks so I have to focus my attention on the ground directly in front of me. I can see the footprints of some of the other guys who have returned from their runs already. They will be scattered throughout the field house; some in the training room stretching and talking, while others are in the locker room taking a shower and getting ready for dinner.
I finish the run at the edge of the track and walk to the infield. My legs feel gooda bit of tired in them from the effort of the run. I decide not to hurry off to the field house. Instead, I kick off my shoes and take off my socks. I smile at the ring of slit around my ankle and the dark mud scrubbed into my calves. I walk to the end zone of the football field. The vibrant green of the artificial turf annoys meit looks so fake, so unlike the grass that it replaces. It also itches my bare feet as I easy into my first strider. I build up to a steady pace by the fifty-yard line, then slowly easy back down. My form feels good and my legs are strong. As I drive into the next one, Mike appears along the side of the track. He too is muddy and alone I notice as I turn back toward him. He, like myself, needs those days alone. He waits on the edge of the track, stretching while I finish my strides.
These are the days that I need every so oftenalone on a familiar trail, rocking though the mud.