Rain Run

Dire warnings of an overnight snowstorm failed to materialize, and we awoke today to above freezing temperatures and sunny skies. By noon the thermometer had risen into the 40s, and I was looking forward to the first group long run of the New Concord Runners, a group of faculty who trained together to run the Columbus half-marathon last spring, and hope to repeat. But the press of tests, assignments, meetings and grading that often consumes the last week before spring break had people bailing out, and by two oclock, it looked like the group run was off. On cue the clouds covered the sky and the rain began to come down. It was still in the mid 40s, so I decided to go for a solo run about town nonetheless. It was nice to forgo the winter tights, the longsleeve technical shirt, the fleece, knit cap and gloves I don on cold weather runs, and swap them for shorts, a shortsleeve shirt, a light windbreaker and a ball cap to keep the rain off my glasses.

I set out through my own neighborhood, then wound my way across campus. The rain was light. I was reminded once again that a light rain is a much less pleasant experience when viewed from the dry side of a picture window than it is to be in the midst of it, inhaling the clean, moist air. On campus large swatches of grass were now uncovered, and squirrels raced frantically across the ground, searching for nuts buried last fall. A large flock of ducks had reappeared at the College lake, and were giddy with delight to find a small opening in the ice. Some circled the pond offering celebratory quacks; others congregated on the edge of the ice, awaiting their turn to float and paddle. Thinking about my kayak, propped up on sawhorses in the basement, I was a bit jealous, as I suspect I am still at least a few weeks away from getting back on the water.

I ran past the dorms to the north end of town, completed a lap around Lake Sturtevant, offering a greeting to Dave as I passed his marker. I ran around the schools complex, normally quiet on a Sunday afternoon, but buzzing with activity today, apparently hosting a middle school basketball tournament. Then through the east side neighborhoods: Sunrise Acres, a postwar neighborhood of ranch homes and colonials originally built to house faculty, and Meadowwood, the upscale neighborhood of McMansions where doctors, lawyers, bankers, and of course, football and baseball coaches live. I then crossed Main Street and ran through our old neighborhood on Maple Avenue, a street primarily with much older, modest working class homes.

By the time I crossed Liberty street, I had been running for about forty minutes, and the plan was for a forty-five minute easy run. But five steps past Liberty, something told me to turn around, and head over the rickety wooden railroad bridge south of town, and take on the big double hill that leads up toward the freeway. When the urge to keep going appears, it seems foolish not to take advantage of it. Its appearance is relatively rare. I was feeling really good--not glancing at my watch and counting the seconds until I could stop, but really embracing the run. I flew up the first hill, with little effort until I had reached its crest. When I hit the second hill--steeper and twice as long as the first--it seemed equally effortless the first three-quarters of the way, and by then the sight of the top was enough to pull me to the top. As I headed back into town, along a route that was mostly a gradual decline, I got that feeling all runners crave--that moment when heart and lungs and arms and legs are in such perfect sync you feel like you could keep running forever. I didn't want this run to end.

When I got back to town, I decided to savor this one by running the length of Main Street and back. I ran past Shegog's grocery story and the Dairy Duchess. The rain had stopped, and a cool white vapor was rising from the remaining piles of melting snow. I ran past John Glenn's boyhood home, John's barbershop, the Friendship Inn Bed and Breakfast, the funeral home, the post office, and the William Rainey Harper Log Cabin. The aroma of pizza hung thick in the air, emitted from the three Main Street pizza parlors busy baking up pies for hungry students, returning to campus from a weekend visiting friends or family, and anxious to put off dorm food for just one more meal. I ran past the town veteran's memorial, the Village Hall, the laundromat, the bank, and Johnson's diner. Past the hardware store and the old Johnny Appleseed Inn. Past original National Road homes whose front doors opened practically right into the street. I kept running east until I got to the speed limit signs at the edge of town which told travelers they could now speed up. Then I turned around and ran back the length of Main Street again.

I love this village. I love its vintage feel. Its lack of pretension. Its ordinary everyday American-ness. And there's nothing like a glorious post-rain run to remind me how lucky I am to live here.