Jogged seven miles in semi-darkness along the bike path that skirts the tidal lagoon at the edge of Richardson Bay.  Headlamp and bright yellow rain jacket to protect me from early morning bike commuters, listening to music on my Beats to soften the experience.   

Passed several walkers from the Redwoods, a nearby residence for seniors.  Some hunched over, bundled up as if to survive a Minnesota winter.  Hobbling and meandering along the trail.  Did they wish they could still run (did they ever)?   They smiled and acknowledged as I tossed good mornings their way as I rambled past.  More often I’m biking this route rather than running it, and know them only as hazards to be avoided that appear with no warning in the winter pre-dawn fog and darkness.  But on foot, I see them as humans — Sam’s grandmother, someone’s grandfather, inhaling the cool marsh air on their morning strolls.  Please, may I be like them someday, not now, not 10 or even 15 years hence, but whenever I am no longer able to fool my lungs and limbs into believing that there is nothing finer than the feeling of running.