The perfect run

”I'm going for a short run”, I told a sick J.

”What do you mean by short? 15 kilometres?” he joked.

I admit that I enjoy how some people I know think this of me. That, for me, 15 km is a short run. However unbelievably exaggerated it might be. It chimes well with the ideal of who I want to become.

I had toyed with the idea of staying indoors all day today. It rained a lot this morning, which in itself is no issue. But it was also windy. I had hoped that the weather would be good enough for a long run, but in the end I compromised and went for a short run.

It had stopped raining when I left the flat, but the sky was still dark and ominous. Some school kids were by the lake, and one of them had jumped in and was drying her hair. I rounded the lake avoiding most of the water puddles that had formed after the rain. The wind couldn't reach me as long as I was in the forest. 

I turned towards the horse path. The sign that tells you in which direction the horse sulkies drive each day of the week had been vandalised and was illegible. I used my amazing deduction skills, honed by countless hours wasted solving Sudoku puzzles on the Internet, to look at the hoof prints on the soaked path and conclude that the sulkies were going in the same direction as I. I would have to be careful.

The rain had turned every leaf in this lush part of the forest into a luminous, almost glow-in-the-dark shade of green. The air was so delicious, so full of oxygen that just breathing in and out was an exhilarating act of pure pleasure. I kept an easy, even pace, that not once felt strained.

It was the perfect run. I didn't run 15 km. But I did run longer than I had planned to.