On Easter morning, my family and I took our annual nature walk — a quiet tradition. As we made our way down the trail, I kept thinking, I really should start trail running again.
I’ve always preferred trail running to road running. Even back when I stuck to sidewalks and neighborhood streets, I’d find myself veering off course on a detour, slipping into the forest any chance I got. Pavement never quite felt right.
As we emerged from the woods, I challenged my son to a race — a sprint to the top of a hill about a quarter mile away. He’s recently taken up track and plays competitive soccer, so I knew what I was up against: young legs and lungs in full training mode. I kept up, barely. By the end, I was gassed. But I hadn’t run like that — not really — since before my dog Motzie passed in November.
And it felt great.
Today, during my lunch break, I set out for my usual walk around the lake — a habit I’ve managed to stick with. I was wearing my old trail running shorts and a loose t-shirt, and at the last second, I changed my mind.
Forget the walk. I’m running through the woods.
So I did.
I took off down a dirt path, my old stomping grounds, winding my way through trees in various stages of bloom. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like a kid again. I wasn’t thinking about pace or heart rate. Trail running doesn’t let you move too fast anyway — not unless you want to eat dirt or twist an ankle on an exposed root.
I ran slow.
I ran for the joy of it.
I ran because it felt like play.
It felt like an adventure, and it was.
By the time I stopped, I was drenched in sweat and smiling.
I think I’ll do it again tomorrow.