Forest Run

    I love a foggy morning run, with the forest smelling of pine, the white opaqueness of the timberline, the waking birds welcoming the day like church bells. Water droplets drift through the air, cleansing my lungs through each heaving breath, the stopwatch ticking with each footfall on the trail. Up the hill I stride, the tall Douglas firs saluting my speed. A woman walking her dog nods silently, the ferns brushing past with every lunge. Three, four, five miles my endurance conquers. At six my sweat-soaked shirt clings to my chest, pressing my torso into an aerodynamic formation. 

    My earphones blast the rhythmic sensation of immersive music, rising and falling like the hills dividing my pace, synchronizing intermittent crescendos. There is a sacred space created when the music peaks and my legs feel strong as the ground. My feet take flight, soaring over the land, up into the fog where my thoughts clear and the bright day burns it all away. I become a child again, feeling so alive that the long years of sorrow evaporate like the morning dew off the pavement, leading me back home, out of the misty forest and into the nirvana of an endorphin high. 

    This spiritual catharsis is fueled by long musical progressions that peak as my strength reaches its limit, just before my legs give way and the moving meditation breaks. I become too tired to maintain the rhythm; it falters right as the soft glow of the sun seeps through the clouds and the fog retreats up past the green-horned rim of the trees. My body wants to collapse onto the soft good earth, but it must stay course or the stopwatch feels ignored. I slow down, ending the run as the warm light of day awakens the rest of the forest.