It's been raining here, off and on, for the past three days. The bulk of the rain has passed and a light, barely noticeable mist is falling. I am ready to run. My driveway connects to a steep hill. I live about two-thirds down from the top of the hill. As usual, I turn to go down the hill. The sky is gray. To my right, the fog embraces the tops of the mountains with gentle caresses and kisses that linger. As I reach the bottom of the hill, the jealous sun approaches and, reluctantly, the fog whispers its farewell.
I, too, move on, up the next hill, all the while watching and listening for cars. Though there's little traffic this time of day, people who drive in the country expect wide open spaces, not other cars, let alone runners or bikers. My iPod never goes on this run with me. I have to be plugged into the sounds around me. The music I hear today comes from the birds chatting each other up, social in their network, as they search for their new homes and make their plans for the coming months.
Finally, I reach the place where the land and road level out. I turn left and follow the roadside path paved for bikes. The sheep in the field look up briefly from their grazing. Sensing no threat or activity interesting enough to keep them from their routine, they bow their heads get back to the task at hand. I run a bit further before saying goodbye to the peaceful sheep and head back.
The homestretch challenge begins. It's all uphill. I take longer, slower strides, and even walk in the steepest places. I focus on the explosive beauty of the Redbuds as they burst into springtime in Virginia--well worth the wait, well worth the run.
