I am constantly amazed when I drive out into the country how many abandoned homes and barns are along the road side. Houses sit sagging, windows boarded over, shingles sliding off of roofs. It’s a shame too, because I can only imagine how nice some of these homes were in their prime.
These are photos taken today as I drove home of one particular property I passed many times.
I kind of find it sad and telling that even the boards used to seal up broken windows in this small house are weathered by this point. The door also sat slightly ajar. I wanted to walk inside, but was afraid to be caught trespassing, which I probably already was.
This house sat across the road from the last. It is quite big, and it takes up your view as you drive around a bend in the road. The town both homes are near is small and poor.
And collapsing barns come a dime a dozen.
Many runs lately reflect my mood. Some are uptempo and fast. Others plodding events where I am just ready to be done so I can go home, shower and take a nap. My dedication though hasn’t wavered
The magic of running has become I get to the end, my pace is typically a little better than what it used to be (and I’m often more surprised at the tempo of grueling runs versus the upbeat ones). I almost always, feel a little better, even on those runs where I push too hard or come in walking instead of running along.
I could make the obvious comparison, utter the cliché remark that running reflects life. I have. I am. I will, repeatedly. As in life, it’s more in the application and determination and pursuing of dreams that matter more a lot of the time, versus the real goal met. There will always be another goal.
Perhaps this is also why in this second marathon season I’m not as boisterous about each small achievement, each run, because it’s not new. It’s work and commitment and planning to do better than what I did before. Race day is the event. Training is the prepping, sacrificing, pain and joy it takes to get there and do better. And like most things those little things fill more of my days than the big event. And it is what makes it worth it.
Strangely, at the age of 35 my life is beginning to imitate running. I can be the architect of the game plan to get to where I think I want to be, but where I wind up isn’t necessarily up to me. A day will come and a measure of my plans judged – if I’ve avoid pitfalls, distractions, or moved on to something else that caught my eye on the course.