Running

Abstract

Scrinch. Scrunch. Scrinch. Scrunch. The man listened in the half-light and for a moment wondered whether his left foot really did make a sound different from that of his right each time it hit the frozen gravel. He decided that it probably did not, even though the steps sounded that way to him. Both his feet were the same size. The comfortable Nikes matched. Both legs were the same length. The man thought it likely that his brain merely perceived a left–right distinction because his left ear was closer to his left foot and his right ear to his right foot. Anyway, he liked the sounds. He knew just what to expect at each step. The man rounded a bend. He had been running six miles every morning for twenty years wherever he found himself. That was one of the great things about running. As reliable as Starbucks, you could find a road or bit of sidewalk anywhere. In fact, running opportunities were considerably more reliable. There was no Starbucks around here yet in the mountains where he was spending the weekend at his country retreat. He always carried his wallet in the inside pocket of his Gore-Tex jacket, anyway. He zipped it in, even when he was out alone on a rural road.