Rewarded

The morning dawns overcast and damp. The temperature hovers around 36 degrees. Neither factor makes crawling out of bed for a run easy.

Time and circumstances did not allow for a run while in northern Arkansas. Truth and consequences must be faced. An appointment with the trail amid the hardwood forest at Devil’s Den was not kept. This morning’s run in Little Rock is overdue. Bailing is not an option.

My youngest accompanies me as we head out of the house. She has a breakfast date with college friends at the local Shipley’s Do-nuts shop. I drop her off at the door.

The urge to enter the place is resisted partly so as not to intrude on her independence and partly to avoid the heavenly aroma of greasy fried dough and sweet sugar glaze. How can such an unhealthy combination yield something so luscious? The place probably reeks of freshly brewed strong coffee too.

While she feasts on cinnamon twists in the company of classmates, my breakfast consists of a tube of slightly out of date and thicker-than-it-should-be-for-human-consumption chocolate Gu ingested in solitude. A few packets of the stuff stored in an inconspicuous place were forgotten. Once discovered, parting with it seemed a waste.

As the last mouthful of well-on-the-way-to-being-solidified goop is choked down with mass quantities of water, a resolution is made to rethink the wisdom of that decision. Call me crabby, but on this morning the just-short-of-being-chewy-almost-resembling-a-cow’s-cud crud is expendable.

At this point my only motivation for seeking the path along the Arkansas River is a righteous sense of martyr-like nobility stemming from the knowledge that I am doing what I should though mind and body resist. Told you I was crabby.

There are no cars parked in the lot when I arrive at Murray Park. The water flowing under the Big Dam Bridge (invoking the name never fails to conjure shades of redneck nightmares) is uncharacteristically tame. Its surface mirrors the sky above. The only sign that the lazy river is in motion are rippling inverted v’s at the base of short stobs protruding from the depths.

Crossing the trestle bridge never ceases to feel odd no matter how many times this route is run. Its surface gives under my weight so that footfalls are slightly out of sync.

The lone tracks of a runner’s shoe soles are lightly but indelibly etched into the concrete. It’s as if someone eagerly waited for construction workers to complete their work so as to be the first to traverse the causeway. They crossed just as the substance cured to the precise density necessary to record this maiden passage without marring the shoes.

Or maybe some guy zoned out on endorphins mindlessly and coincidentally loped up and over at just the right moment without realizing he was creating a personal memorial. Who can tell?

As I head for the I-430 bridge internal crabbiness is expelled with every breath. Though the skies remain cloudy and the temperature stays constant my mood is altered. By the time the turn is made a sunny disposition cannot be restrained.

Bare legs are numb from contact with cold air by run’s end. The torso radiates heat. The contrast between the two is a paradox. Memories of a warm bed and puffy circles of calorie laced iced bread are long forgotten.

Running is its own reward.