How it Began

Miles

It all began because of a dog, really; a little Jack Russell-Chihuahua named Miles. I was 35 years old and living quite contentedly in a Victorian-era historic farmhouse on Knight Road, on the westerly borders of Ann Arbor, Michigan.

The original hardwood floors echoed the many lives the structure had lived, and the high walls and sweeping doorways held in their histories a deeply positive, luminous energy. The original staircase at the forward foyer ached and groaned, but the beautiful dark wood of the stairs was a joy to feel underfoot. The grounds were in excess of seven acres, surrounded by a density of wild trees, and the sky was prone to the most stunning sunrises and sunsets I had ever experienced. Sandhill cranes stopped off in surprising numbers in the fields to the east, Coopers hawks wheeled in the breadth, and dragonflies spun in stunning swarms at dusk. Deer grazed by the dozens beneath my bedroom window in the misty mornings, and crows brayed bold and beautiful from the roof of the big red barn behind the house.

I shared the place with several people; a car salesman, a master carpenter, a waiter, and a medical records professional. The rumble of a Harley Davidson shook the garage and everything else on Sundays and any day it was reasonable to ride. Sometimes the thunder of six or seven motorcycles gathered in the driveway, and every window trembled in its pane. Grandchildren visited a few times a week, and kept the place jovial. There were animals as well, a decidedly aloof, moody Calico named Belle, and a rutted old sage of an English Bulldog named Buster. My housemates had a broad, pleasant and stable network of friends, and many of these folks had pets as we did. So occasionally, animals from other households came to us for looking after while their people went abroad.

The little Jack Russell-Chihuahua wasn't too sure about his abrupt change of surroundings, and he growled as ferociously as he could from the safety of the crate he had arrived in. But I instantly loved the little creature, and gradually worked my way closer to him, leaving a treat I knew he couldn't resist nearer and nearer to his nose. When at last he snapped up the morsel from my fingers, his little eyes clicked up to me. His flanks shivered hard, but his whip tail swung, curious. I opened the crate, and encouraged him to come out. He did.

First, I took him out the sun room door in my arms and let him run in the fenced pasture beside the barn, realizing quickly that Miles was essentially a coiled spring coated in fur. He never stopped moving, and in his smallness and quickness he found a gap in the fence, and I nearly lost him. I was out of shape, but my legs carried me along after him fast enough to snatch him up from the ditch beneath the willows along the roadside. The first proper walk on a leash proved that 'Miles' was indeed a good name for the little pooch, but, as I raced along breathless after him, the thought occurred to me that 'Dash' might have been a more suitable moniker.

I had never been what I would call 'athletic' in my life, and by the time we huffed it back to the house, it crossed my mind that I should perhaps be writing my last will and testament - I felt, truly, as if I was about to expire, and we'd only run a mile, maybe less. But my adoration for the little dog found me breezing out the door with him again and again, until we were doing a steady four walks a day, and going further and further each time. As I watched him bounce along on the roadside ahead of me, his tongue lolling and his sweet spirit bright, my feet came along with a quickness that felt oddly satisfying. I liked to run too. My lungs flashed with the fresh air. My heart beat its merry little drum in my chest. I was sore afterward, and my calves burned, and the soles of my shoes seemed to be smoking, but as Miles wagged his tail, I could only think of going out into the sunshine again, and off we went.

I began to look forward to the deep, cleansing inhales required to exert my little friend, and began to enjoy the way my body exalted the effort it took. By the time Miles went home to his family again, he and I had gone quite a few miles indeed. I ached to see him go, knowing that I would always remember the brief and affectionate time we'd been friends. Even though his leash was no longer hung by the door, and even though I no longer had to make those four journeys a day, I found myself craving the quickness of motion, remembering the pull of wind around my body, and seeking the flashing, rhythmic surges of energy that fired off in my muscles as I ran. I realized that in just a few short weeks, something completely unexpected, exciting and life-altering had been set in motion.

From then on, running became a daily ritual, and, being very early spring in the Midwest, the air kept to a chill. But the juxtaposition of the cold air against my happy heat was a bliss. My breath raced in faint, swirling vapors as I exhaled, and my feet felt sure and strong beneath me. I extended the lengths of my runs quickly, surprised to discover that in very little time I was covering a startling distance. As I left for work in the morning, or when I came home in the afternoon, I found myself smiling at my vacant Filas where they lay in wait by the door. They were an integral part of something that I was swiftly falling in love with - something difficult but rewarding, that I had begun to crave.

Then one day, the broad, sweeping calm of the sky that usually unfurled itself over the rooftop looked surly and ominous, and raced with scudded bands of heavy cloud. Rain fell in diagonal shrouds beyond the budding trees in the west, and a disconcerting crackle of thunder severed the stillness. I pulled on my running pants and picked up my shoes. It was time to run. No excuses. Then, as I flowed along in air heavy with the scent of an oncoming storm, I envisioned myself beneath a tree, which suddenly took a searing hit of lightning. I realized that I would have to come up with an alternate plan.

The closest gym was an Anytime Fitness, which I was familiar with because it shared a parking lot with a Whole Foods knock-off called Plum Market, where I frequently bought organic apples, overpriced coffee and 'natural' toothpaste. There was also the thrift store I frequented for toe socks, flip flops and the occasional sweater. The gym was in the far corner, across from a Chinese restaurant called Panda House. Ben, a youngster made of abs and biceps, quads and calves, with a brief crash of curly black hair on top, met me with a smile as I came in through the door.

After a quick glance at the equipment I was signing up, explaining that I was a runner - well, at least I had been for the past few months - Ben was enthusiastic, and I appreciated the general energy I received from the folks who were pounding the treadmill, spinning the recumbent or hefting up the weights at the rear. I was satisfied, knowing that I had an out whenever thunder struck.