I’ve been rediscovering what it is to run in the dark. To be out in the pitch black, a chill in the air, is to meet yourself coming the other way. You can take the opportunity of a little reconciliation, some patching up, the chance to celebrate yourself; or you can fall into the trap of pining for those long summer evenings.
It’s a personal thing. I really can’t lecture others on what their preferences should be. But for me, somehow those long, warm jaunts are just too easy. Too unchallenging. The pleasure is shallow and it doesn’t endure. Run in the dark, I say. Early morning or evening. Early delivers more of a shock to the system. It’s a form of defibrillation. Running early on a summer morning can be a wonderful thing, but it doesn’t have quite the energising impact of getting out there when the world is cold and damp and uninviting.
Not that it’s cold yet. Just a little fresh. But gloriously dark and intimate. Yeah, that’s the word. Intimate. The darkness turns running from a simple physical activity to something sensual and altogether more cerebral.
This evening’s run was my third in three days. It’s been only a week or two since I was last getting out regularly, but somehow it seems longer. It’s all changed so quickly. Those runs of a couple of weeks ago belonged to an earlier season. Then it was summer. Now it’s dark and cool and magical again.
And how good it feels to be able to post an entry from home on a Monday night. First time in months.
