Eight miles into a 10-mile run through Hidden Valley

I didn’t start enjoying running until I could run more than four or five miles. The first couple always suck, even now, and so a two or three mile run would never be anything but a slog. It would be over before I could find a good rhythm, get the endorphins going. And even four and five mile runs, at least at first, were tough to get into. I was still getting my legs for those, still working on beefing up my cardio capacity for running at all, really. It wasn’t until I was four miles into a six-mile run at the marina a few months ago that I felt my first runner’s high. I had looked down at my feet, checking the way they were hitting the pavement, and I realized nothing hurt. Nothing was hard, not even my breathing. It felt like something else was running me, some other engine not under my own power. I ran the last mile and a half barely aware of anything but the small sounds of gulls, the metronome-like tap of my shoes, how the pearly morning air was wrapping around the water alongside me. But for that mile and a half I was bodyless.

Now that handoff happens predictably right around mile four for most runs. It’s a specific moment, I feel the change when it comes. Not to be corny, but on a micro-scale it’s not unlike how I imagine the shuttle crew feels when the boosters fall away. All that push and fire and vibration and jarring, jostling discomfort, and then…nothing. You’re still moving, objects in the distance are getting closer. But damned if you know how.