As he rounded the bend in the road, Millar’s watch beeped, chiming off another mile. He was right on pace for the night’s run, and things were feeling good. He hadn’t been sure how his run was going to go tonight after the long day at work, but so far he felt like he could go for hours. He pressed a button on the side of his watch to bring up the time. 1:12AM. ‘Man, that was a long day,’ he thought. He hadn’t left the office until just after midnight and probably should have gone right home to bed, but he needed his run—it helped clear the thoughts and images out of his head and helped him sleep. He’d been tempted just to go home and climb into bed, but he had convinced himself to put on his runners and hit the streets. Even if he only got in a mile, it was better than nothing.
Living in a quiet neighbourhood in the east end of the city, the streets were almost always empty at this time of night. Millar saw the odd light on through someone’s window and heard a car off in the distance but there was no one else out enjoying the cool night air. That was something he never really understood. Late at night and early in the morning were his favourite times to go for a run. He had the roads to himself and only had to worry about a stray cat getting in his way. Maybe it was for the best that no one else seemed to feel the same way as he did.
He turned again and started up a side street towards the north side of the city to get to the paths by the river, the best place to run. Another mile passed by and it was time to pick up the pace. He really enjoyed this part of the run, when his breathing got a little heavier but was still a nice even rate. He could feel his body fall into a rhythm—everything started to work like a machine. Off in the distance he could see a flash of lightning over the river, accompanied by a low roar of thunder. A typical summer storm was heading in from the west, snaking along the river towards him.
He turned on his headlamp as he got to the path. There were no street lights on this part of his run. He adjusted the light so that he could see about ten paces in front of his feet. If there was something in his path, he would hopefully see it in time to adjust his steps to avoid injury. This wasn’t the place to fall and get hurt. During the day, the path was used by a lot of people: office employees biking to work in their suits, retirees walking to their favourite fishing spots, stay-at-home parents out for a jog, pushing strollers and chatting with friends—but at this time of night, chances were no one was going to be coming by to give him a hand.
He checked his watch again and saw that he was running a lot quicker than he really planned to, but decided to keep the pace to try and outrun the storm. This was where he got to see what he was made of. Did he listen to his body and slow down, or did he shut out the negative thoughts and keep pushing? Back when he had first started running, he would always listen to his body and slow down—or worse, stop running all together. But he had learned over the years that the body liked to lie. If he continued, his body would realize it was actually willing to go along for the ride. Usually, anyways.
Another two miles down and he was beginning to breathe hard. There was a strong breeze coming off the water which helped cool him off, but he was still starting to feel like the pace was too much and he’d have to slow down soon. ‘Just keep it going for another half mile,’ he panted out loud. He dug in and set his sights on a bench in the distance, his finish line for the night. Another flash and roar. The storm was closing in. He narrowed his focus, ignoring the burn in his legs and lungs.
Somehow, he managed to speed up again for the last two hundred yards, running faster than he had in months. Possibly ever. He passed the bench and began to slow to a jog, stopping his watch as he did. Slowing to a walk, he cycled through the data on his watch, mentally comparing the numbers to his last run. He liked the feeling of competition, even if he was the only person in the race. Competition helped him push himself, no matter what he was doing.
Feeling his thighs begin to tighten, Millar turned back towards the bench to stretch out his long legs. He grabbed a small bottle of water from a belt hanging around his hips. As he took a sip, another flash of lightning lit up the sky. The storm was getting closer.
Resting his right hand on the back of the bench, he bent his left leg back, holding his foot, pulling it gently towards his backside and feeling a pull in his aching muscles. It was a good pull. He turned and switched legs. His right thigh was much tighter than his left—he couldn’t get his foot nearly as close to his body. Over the years, he had noticed a loss of flexibility. It was something he always said he would work on, but never did. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ he would say, but that tomorrow never came.
He checked his watch again. Time to head home and try to steal a few hours of sleep before he had to return to the office. He began to retrace his steps to his car, finishing off the bottle of water as he walked. His phone rang.
Wiping the sweat off of his ear, he pulled the phone out of his arm holder. Looking at the number he realized his day was about to get a lot longer.