It is six thirty and I find myself very close to the Turkey Pen trail head. It has been pouring rain all day long and the entire world is apparently drowning but a break in the clouds appears and the rain begins to stop. I have but one chance and that is to run. I take stock of what I have: running shoes and shorts but nothing else. I have forgotten to bring my watch or mp3 player. I don't have socks or a jacket or even a water bottle. All the things that seem to matter so much I have left at home. There will be no digital record of this run - it won't count towards whatever it is we count. There will be no sweet music to distract me. My feet could get wet and I could get cold if it starts raining again.
But yet I begin up the trail. The pleasant sound of water dripping from the budding trees and the steady rhythm of my steps is all I have. The woods envelope me and a distinct petrichor scent hangs in the air. I enter a tunnel of rhododendron and notice how their trunks undulate like waves across the ocean. There is something very primal about all of this, something very real. There is no why or what for. Just a trail through the woods but nowhere to go so I just simply run.