As a kid, I always hated sitting in the back of the car while driving through flat states on our way to visit family for Christmas and other special occasions. Ohio, Indiana…driving across their eerily quiet and empty cornfields and plains gave me the creeps. I was used to narrow gravel roads that wound their way around cliffs and through the foothills of the mountains. I felt safe surrounded by the heights of the rock walls that often loomed on either side of the road.
When I was old enough to drive through Ohio and Indiana myself, I still found myself bored and mildly unnerved driving for hours on end through cornfield after cornfield after cornfield, with the occasional farmhouse, amusing billboard, or city interspersed between.
Not surprisingly, then, when I started running in college, I quickly gravitated toward trail running, rather than running laps on a track. I was slow and out of shape and running through the woods made me feel faster and more adept. The trails were narrow obstacle courses with fallen trees to jump over, hills to sprint up, and rocks and patches of slippery leaves to avoid. The variety made running an adventure and my mind wandered easily, whereas when running on the road, my mind only fixated on how many steps I’d already taken and how far I still had to go. I’d tell myself, “halfway there,” and “just make it to that lamppost” or “just five more minutes to go.”
Unfortunately, after getting a little overzealous with my running about two years ago and injuring my IT band to the point that I was no longer able to run for a while, I’ve yet again gotten slow and out of shape. And unfortunately, although I live close to the Carpathian Mountains, my town is located in a big, deep valley. And that means that unless I’m running straight up the hills that surround Chortkiv, most of my potential running paths are fairly flat.
I miss my Kentucky trails. But as I slowly (and I do mean slowly) get back into shape, I’m learning to appreciate a new kind of variety on my runs.
Although I often run on roads here, they’re not always paved. They’re often gravel or dirt, lending them an air of trail-ness. And they’re filled with potholes that require creative and quick side-stepping that almost remind me of dodging rocks or fallen trees. My normal route takes me along a partially-paved road that runs through a small village-like neighborhood across the river from my dorm and the rest of town. Here people let their roosters, chickens, ducklings, and dogs run free. Little kids race on their bicycles and wrinkled, hunched babusyas wheel carts bearing God-only-knows-what down the street.
If I carefully dodge all the potholes and avoid being bitten by a guard dog on the loose, I run to the ruins of the fortress that stands next to the huge Orthodox church where people come to collect holy water from the spring that pours out from the hillside.
After running past the fortress and the church, being careful not to slip on the cobble-stones that pave the road surrounding them, I make a loop on my way back home. I run back through my favorite neighborhood, again I avoid all the manic dogs, step around the chickens and the ducklings and greet the babusyas working in their gardens, staring at me as I stumble past. Then I take a turn down a small gravel road that runs between the river and a field where an old lady leaves her goats to graze.
I’m getting used to the stares from old ladies and small children as I run by and now that it’s warmed up, the desk ladies no longer think I’m crazy for running. And although I very much miss running up and down the trails back home, I’m really starting to enjoy going out in the mornings and running to the fortress, jumping over potholes, and listening to roosters crow.
makes a died-in-the-wool non-runner want to join you. Beautiful story.