Lonelines Of The Long Distance Runner

I woke up this morning at a quarter til five, even though I didn't have to get out of bed for another hour and a half. I could call it pre-race jitters, but that would be over-simplifying. I have been running in a ten-kilometer race of some sort for the past quarter century, so being nervous didn't seem likely. Instead, I used the time to obsess on the tiniest details of the day ahead of me.
I thought about my son, who was spending the night at his grandmother's house, with the expressed intent of making staying at his grandmother's house easier. I wondered what time he fell asleep. I wondered if he was awake like me.
I thought about all the mornings that I had rolled out of bed for the singular purpose of running six miles and change. I tried to recall how many times I had run a race in Colorado, and how many I had run in California. I knew that running at altitude was much more challenging, but the courses in California had been covered by a guy who was no longer in his twenties.
I remembered my father, and the number of trips he used to make to the porta-potties before the start of the races we ran together. I remembered that it was his idea that I start running in the first place. I remembered the time we managed to cross the finish line together.
I was waiting for six o'clock, and I knew I still had another half an hour. More to the point, I knew that my wife, who was sleeping soundly beside me, had another thirty minutes of slumber. I knew that sneaking out from under the covers would cause a shift in the bed temperature, and almost certainly set off the dog alarm. I decided to lay as still as possible and focus on relaxing for those last few quiet moments. In my mind, I could see a bright light. It replaced all the other thoughts and concerns I had put in front of it. I let myself sink into my pillow, the mattress. I felt my weight for a moment, and then I was gone. That's when the alarm went off and it was time to go for a run.