I usually run in the dark.
In part because it’s bloody hot where I live and so it’s best to exercise before the sun comes up.
Also, it’s when I can fit it in.

And I’m not the only one, you guys, so stop with that rolling-of-the-eyes, what-a-nutbag business.

Most mornings, I meet one or two or sometimes three of my best running buddies down there and we pass (or, let’s get real here, are passed by) numerous other dark runners as we move along the trail.

Except that some of them aren’t reallly dark runners.
Some of them wear headlights.

If they’re coming at you, you just sort of have to squint and then carry on.
If they’re coming from behind, you get this monster-mash-at-the-roller-rink strobe light effect.
It’s kind of disconcerting.
One of my running partners gets a little seasick.

This morning I was down there alone so I really had time to think about those lights.

Why do they bug me so? 

The squinting is a minor inconvenience at best and I don’t actually get seasick from them, even though I actually am so susceptible that I got seasick while snorkling once.

So.

It turns out that for me, it’s not the physical upset but the mental and emotional intrusion of those bobbley little lamps. Because the other great thing about running in the dark — besides the fact that it’s not 200 degrees and it doesn’t cut into the workday — is that there is some sort of suspension of time and space. You can lose yourself down there — in intimate conversation or in deep thought, in hard work or in effortless meditation. I swear, there are days I’m not aware I’m running ’til I’m halfway done because I’ve transcended the bodily movement and am in some swirly-whirly headspace that feels an awful lot like a really good day with words.

Intuitive. Self-propelled. Revealing.

And I really don’t want anyone to bust in on that with battery power.

‘Specially when the sun is on its way up, all on its own…