I started jogging down the road, not even bothering to start with a shirt on even though the summer morning cool still hung heavily in the air. I celebrated being the first one awake for about 15 seconds, and then I saw the boat trailer in the parking area, dripping with water and with no boat in sight. I guess the early fisherman catches the best fish.
I sped up from a limp-jog to more of a step-jog because my legs were now waking up a little on this groggy morning. The light was growing in the northeastern sky, but no big ball of fire had yet appeared. The birds were chirping, the rabbits were sitting on the road, and a whitetail deer must have been offended by my smell and ran off into the skyline. The deer had probably been there for awhile, and I guess the early deer catches the tasty dew-covered grass.
I started thinking about how much easier training is at this time of day. In my first two years on staff at Camp of the Cross, my prep time (break) was from 3:30-5:00, and you may recognize that as the heat of the day. I have vivid memories of stopping and walking for awhile simply because I was dying. I pounced on opportunities to run in the mornings on weekends, when I could breath cool air that evades the land during the day. Sometimes I would see farmers up already spraying their fields before it got windy, but I guess the early farmer catches the calm weather.
Summer running is simply more relaxing in the early morning. The whole terrain sits quietly, as if preparing for the incredible 16 hours of sunlight that is to come. Around mile 3 I passed by another pickup, but this one was carrying the boat with it. They slowed down and skirted past me, giving the standard wave that people up at this time of day will surely do, having seen so few people. I guess the early driver catches the quietest roads.
The nice thing about this long run was that it took me 8 miles to sweat through the entirety of my running shorts, unlike the 4 miles it took last week under the summer sun. Nobody is there to see it. I think about the Prairie Lake Festival we have coming up that day, a grueling 9 hours of hospitality and quilt-selling. I think about the concept of distance, and how different our idea of it today is than that of the homesteaders 130 years ago. I lament for those who are still sleeping and missing out on the sun finally peeking over the horizon, checking to see if all is well before leaping up into the sky. It does decide to jump, but it's quickly overtaken by a small group of clouds which bully it for the next 20 minutes. The sun eventually breaks free and illuminates a quiet, clear, and awe-striking landscape. The canola has bloomed yellow, the brilliant blue of the flax fields is showing early signs of returning, and even the wheat is coming along wonderfully.
I press on towards to camp, mile after mile breezing by. The wind off the lake is picking up, allowing a cool breeze to start what promises to be a warm day. Fortunately we have air conditioning, but that is a relatively new thing. Some people who settled the prairie had ingenious ideas of how to keep their houses/huts cool, including deep windowsills to cut off the amount of sunlight coming in. I wonder if with all of our new technological inventions we are becoming more resourceful or less. The true engineer is not the one who is paid to create a certain machine, but the one who can look at any situation and devise a way or mechanism to make it better. I guess the early riser catches a little philosophy.
I'm back at camp now. It was a good 13 mile run. We're leaving in 30 minutes and I still need to run strides, stretch, eat, grab a camp vehicle, and try to round up the herd camp staff for a full Saturday of work. I can't help but remember how I have no inclination to hop back into bed right now. I'm fully awake all day as a result of my morning summer runs. It seems to me like it's the most rewarding time to run. I guess you could say the early runner catches the peace of the world.
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