Last Run in England

While in Dorset, I had the opportunity to go for one of the most spectacularly beautiful runs of my life. Considering the fact that I have been running just about everyday for the past decade, this is a pretty meaningful statement. (I’d say the most breath-taking run that I’ve ever been on was in the Colorado Rockies…but this was breath-taking for entirely different reasons…think altitude…haha) Anyway, back to Dorset. Picture this: it’s early morning, a little before 7:00AM. You are at a cozy British hotel, in the middle of Dorset-nowhere, and you have absolutely no idea where you are going to run. The only hope you have is a vague suggestion from the night before, that if you go out “that way” and turn “this way,” you’ll find some old bridle paths. “Lovely,” you think, “an hour run of bumpy, poop-covered, bridle paths. Just lovely.” You decide to give it a chance and head in the suggested direction, which happens to be uphill. It starts out pretty ordinary—root, rock, ridge, rabbit hole… Just as you are beginning to worry about your ankles, you make it to the top of the hill. And there, for three magical seconds, your heart stops beating. (Not recommended for distance runners…) But, the landscape is magnificent! The sun is just rising beyond the green sloping fields, flocks of sheep graze on the hillsides, the air is crisp, cool and so clean, thick heads of grain bend and wave with the summer winds, and you—you can’t stop smiling. So you keep on running. Sunbeams dance on your eyelids, your breath is lost in the twirling winds, you see nothing but blue sky and rich earth and you thank God—audibly, loudly, before all the bleating sheep—for putting you in England and making you a runner.