A warm breeze blew across my bedroom from window to window. The hum of traffic, ever evident, was only lessened because it was 3:30 a.m., Wednesday morning. I stretched my six foot two frame in the bed; my heartbeat was already heightened.
It was the second day of the week for my training; this morning I would run five miles. The pre-dawn running regime had grown on me. The quiet streets and city parks that I traversed for an hour and one-half, the lessened—but insistent—traffic, and the early morning air—cleaner than during the full force of the day, had all become beacons, searching for me to join them.

I got out of bed and began my now automatic routines in preparation for the run. I slipped into the thin, parachute nylon running shorts that I had torn at the side hems all the way to the elastic waistband. The “floating” jock inside had long since been cut out, offering my body total freedom of movement. I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on my white socks and running shoes. I stood only to lift one leg, then the other, onto a nearby chair to begin the ritualistic stretching.

In the lobby of the ten-story apartment building that I live in, I sat on the carpeted floor and continued stretching, before swinging open the double glass doors and taking in that first chest full of morning air. The slight chill only heightened the tingle that ran from head to toe. I began walking, slowly at first, then more deliberately and quicker for the first half mile. I also used that time to slowly have my eyes become adjusted to the dark, to the streetlights, and to the oncoming headlights.

I quickened my pace to an easy run as I turned the first curve of the middle of the three city parks that dotted this thoroughfare through the south side of the city. No cars parked along the edge, no one out at all save for the occasional passing automobile. The first half of the run was the time during which I cleared my mind of mental debris and during which the muscles in my 175-pound frame would tighten and become accustomed to the three-time-a-week running schedule. The second park I circled was always the darkest of the three, and I immediately turned back to retrace my steps when I got to its far corner. Before I could think much about it, I was back passing by the front door of my apartment building, gliding as much as running, sweat falling off my forehead, streaming down my back, glistening in the streetlights as it beaded up on my red chest hair. A car passed, but slowed as it did.

This third section of the run is my favorite. The flat terrain of the first two parks is quickly replaced by low, rolling hills; a golf course to circle; wooded and sleepy neighborhood streets; and the third park, a dug-out of the earth wonder where I always complete my run, warm down and stretch for twenty minutes.

I always notice that the traffic seems to pick up as I pass the park on my way to the golf course, the hills, and the woods. . . And that time in a long-distance run when those mind-erasing endorphins kicked in. Even as the first shade of day light could only be discerned at the horizon, the run becomes darker and darker, tree-lined streets make a black tunnel in which to