My long run on Sunday morning was the longest distance I've gone since my injury -- a whopping 14.8 miles. That didn't even constitute as a long run for me during marathon training last fall. This run, if you just look at my pace, was nothing to be excited about. It was over 90 degrees and humid, I ran out of water at the end and couldn't find a store, and my legs were still recovering at my first attempts at speed work on Tuesday and Thursday (a whopping 7:05 pace was the best I could do for any amount of time, and the four minute intervals were barely below an 8 pace... coming back is going to take a long, long time.)
But it was a run to remember.
Tonight, I was able to run with my husband for a glorious 8 miles, something we rarely get to do since having our children. It was drizzling when we left, so we left our phones at the house. We didn't have watches. We just ran, and talked. Something about running brings out the best conversations. The sixth mile was right along the beach, and as we turned onto the sand, it started to pour. We looked out onto the endless sea, at the deserted shoreline, at the glassy water and the gentle waves, and ran in silence for that mile.
There is something spiritual about running, and when I run in wilderness (even if I'm steps away from civilization), I feel a sense of grateful that I can't explain.