Silent mornings

In heaven it is always Autumn – John Donne

I wrote some time ago of the pleasure of running without any of the technological encumbrances with which some runners habitually festoon themselves, of the way the brain begins to tick over under its own steam, and of the way in which the unencumbered runner notices more of the world around them.

And now it’s autumn, and this week marked the first of my morning runs conducted entirely in darkness. It’s been trailed over the preceding weeks, with sunrise arriving later and further into the run and now the months of running in complete darkness lie ahead. With nothing to look at, the mind closes in further, it really is just you, the road and your thoughts.

During the back end of summer there’s always a part of me with one eye on the arrival of autumn, Camus’ “second spring”. The thought of the light receding is what bothers me, the encroaching dark mornings, the loss of the evening light as if it’s easier to mourn something whilst you still have it, a late evening in the garden becomes elegiac, won’t be able to do this much longer. But, as with all the things that nag away at your horizons when it finally all is well, and I start to enjoy the dark for itself; the world grown indeterminate, an outline of itself, my footfall sounding muffled. I look forward to a few months of just me, the road, and my thoughts.