Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

humidity, and a light breeze from the northwest was blowing and rustling the changing leaves in the trees. The Inn was almost completely booked for leaf-peeping season so he knew that this might be his last opportunity for such a long run.
    At the edge of the field, where the woods began, he turned. Polly was walking toward the garden. He waved and when she saw him, she waved back. She smiled as if she were up to something, but he didn’t stop to chat. Even though the lightweight pack on his back was riding comfortably, he was looking forward to taking it off and being truly unfettered for his run.

CHAPTER 27
    MALCOM HAD BEGUN TO break a sweat by the time he reached the place where he planned to leave the backpack. The clearing was like the hub of a wheel where several trails all came together. Once, there had been a giant maple tree at this spot, but now all that remained was its stump. The tree had split one winter during an ice storm and had to be taken down. Whenever he was here he remembered how much effort it took to cut that tree up and turn it into firewood, and how that one tree had kept them warm for an entire winter. Now he put the backpack on the stump, had a quick sip of water, checked his watch, and began to run.
    The trail he chose to run first was the longest of the loops that circled back to the clearing. The footing was clean, soft, and fast. Over the years, as he cut the trails into the woods, he tried to make sure that each loop had its own personality. One loop had several challenging hills; another was pure single track with few spots where two people could walk, run, or ski next to each other. Another shared part of its way with the fire road that ran from the main road through his property and alongside of the creek.
    He planned to divide his run into thirds. The first third would be in the woods, on his trails. This would get him warmed up and into the groove. Then he’d head out onto the town’s roads for the next hour before returning to the woods to finish the day.
    Almost before the clearing disappeared from sight, a huge grin took over his face. Had anyone else been around to see him run by, they might have thought him deranged, or possibly in intense pain. His stride quickly lengthened, his breath became regular, and his heart rate steadied. He didn’t even hear the soft crunchy sound of his feet striking the ground. It was as if he were floating over the trail. A jay called out, warning of his approach, and then a squirrel chirped, repeating the warning as it skittered through the brush to the safety of a nearby tree. It was perfection, and as much as he wished he could share that moment, he was selfishly glad that he had it all to himself.
    That first hour passed quickly and it wasn’t until he turned out of the woods and onto the road, that things began to change. His stride still felt comfortable, his breathing remained easy, but the intense pleasure he had felt was no longer there. Now, he had to share his run with others; a car would approach and pass by or he’d pass someone out walking or riding a bike. It didn’t matter that they might have been experiencing the day much as he was; for him it just wasn’t the same.
    The thing about running on winding country roads is that you can never completely relax. You can hear birds, but you can’t afford to listen for them; you have to listen for cars. Too often, the seeming emptiness of the road―with its rises and dips, zigs and zags—leads drivers to imagine that they are somewhere they are not, and they don’t always notice things like runners on the side of the road.
    Malcom was reminded of this suddenly when a truck came around a curve and nearly hit him. He was forced to jump off the road, almost falling in the brush. It all happened so fast he didn’t even have time to yell at the driver or flip him the bird.
    As he climbed out of the brush and back onto the road, he was sputtering a blue streak and had to take several deep breaths to calm down. Instinctively, he started running again, and it took at least a quarter of a mile before his breathing and heart rate had returned to where they should be. It was another quarter of a mile before he began to feel comfortable. He tried to remember the truck: its color, the license plate, anything that in his mind would help him identify it so that he could tell the driver just what he thought if he ever saw him again. Nothing. He only remembered that it was a truck and that