There is a time and place for everything.
There is a time to do laundry, a place to do your business, a time to shovel the driveway and a place to pile the snow.
There is a time to run and a place where it is most rewarding.
On weekdays, the time to run is before the sun comes up when everything but the birds are asleep and there is peace in the rhythm. Or the time to run is after 9:00 pm when the world is settling down, exhaling with the light.
On weekends, the time to run is when it fits life. An afternoon run in fog and drizzle is just as amazing as an evening run in the cooling breeze or the early morning with the rest of the house sleeping in.
The place to run varies from the steep tilt of Kempt Street’s hill in town to the flat curving lilt of the back harbour road. The place can be adventurous like the Gaff Point Trail or benign like the zigging and zagging through the grid of Lunenburg. The place can open to incredible vistas like the feeling of being on a thread at the end of earth’s stitching in Blue Rocks or down Middle Road in Kingsburg. The place can feel confined to the tunnels created by the trees arching over both sides of the Bay to Bay trail.
Whichever place I choose to run, the time is always right. Each place loans a piece of itself to becoming a part of me. The hills become that part of me where I believe in myself when faced with a challenge. The easy roads are my relaxed self, in tune with my breath and emptying of my mind. The adventure and the banal paths both provide me with the excitement or mental break I need to find balance that given day. And whether staring at the far reaches of the horizon or looking down the same straight dirt tracks with the same trees and low shrubs for miles on end, the run helps direct my attention inward to that reflective, contemplative, imaginative, and retrospective place.
The time for the next run is now. The place is where it refuels the self.