Summer Runs & Complete Surprises
Running in the summertime South
In Georgia the summer heat makes the asphalt shimmer more days than it does not and afternoon thunderclouds blacken the sky to pour fat drops down onto steaming parking lots until abruptly rolling away, leaving the sun and the water to wrap everything and everyone up into thick, heavy, quilted air. I swear it’s quilted. It sews you up inside itself.
These are not nice days to run in. These are the days when you get outside as early as possible if you can, or wait until you know that you can slip in on the heels of the day to run in the somewhat-cool of the forest before night comes falling amongst the leaves a full half hour before it descends on the open spaces.
Screven County, GA, near Savannah, where part of my family is from, has very few forest runs to offer. It is mostly swamp. The soil is a mix of clingy red clay and slippery, sinking sand. Running on forest trails offers the prospects of giant spider webs, horse flies, and methane burps so strong that if you weren’t from here they would knock you over. I do not run in the forest when I am here; I run on the roads. The roads, of course, offer the thick, hot air and carrion birds and stillness.
Runs in Screven County are shuffle steps backed by sheer will. I get out in the morning when I can and the evening when I have to. For three decades, I have gotten back from runs in this area angry at how hard it was; how slow it was, and how short it was. This trip promised to be no different, so when I set out on Sunday evening I was prepared to be slow, hot, and pissed off. Three decades taught me that.
Anyone can be wrong sometimes.
My run on Sunday evening was the best run — the best one — I’d ever had in Screven County. I only have two routes here and I took the shorter one because I was not sure when sundown would come. It’s a little out-and-back, but as I started out, slow, expecting nothing good, I found myself speeding up. I found myself running. All of my work with alignment had paid off to make it so my shuffle step wasn’t quite so leaden, quite so dragged down, as it used to be. My hips moved apart from each other if not fast, at least not locked together in a grind. At the turnaround I didn’t look back down the long, curved road with the deep dread and hatred that I usually do. I just turned. It was just a road to me.
I was still beet red when I sunk into the cool of the river at the end. I made the people in the swimming hole laugh at how silly I am to try to run in this heat. I made small talk with them and laughed at myself. I sank my head under water and considered what had just happened: a surprise after 30 years on the same route. A surprise made possible by cross training and the right shoes.
On Monday, I took my longer route. A violent thunderstorm the night before had dumped 5 inches on the area and the clouds, instead of blowing away quickly, hung around in the stratosphere. Without the blazing sun, the day stayed cool as I set out, vacation-late, at 10am. To my surprise, I flew. Released from the heat, supported by my post-partum cross training investments, I crossed the three bridges that start and end my long route with ease and bounce. I noticed the glory of the trees on either side; I said hello to the carrion birds feasting on a raccoon carcass in the middle of the road. I skipped lightly past the giant dogs that always rush me from someone’s trailer along my route. A massive ditch separates them from the road, thank god, but that doesn’t stop me from being prepared to kick them in the jaw if they ever get smart enough to find the driveway.
The clouds scuttled across the sky but did not break. I came to my turn at an abandoned store and started back down the long stretch of gray road. It is flat and mostly one long curve for a slow mile a half. The clouds held the whole way. The dogs had gone inside. The birds had picked the raccoon away into oblivion.
I picked up tempo across the bridges at the end for the simple reason that I could. I have never, ever ended a run here with more energy than I started out with. I have always been drained and occasionally throwing-up sick from the heat. But not on Monday. On Monday I ended strong. That run, the first of its kind, reminded me that surprises happen in the oldest practices. That small changes can cascade into milestones.
I’ve never stopped being surprised by how different each run can be from each other, and I learned this week that any run can still surprise us. So no matter how many times you’ve run a route, try it again. Try it again; try it again. It could surprise you; you could surprise you. For today, remember: go run.
Inspirational and a joy to read.