This past week I reconnected with my runner-self. My current active passion is rock climbing, but I was a competitive runner for many years. This past week, I was visiting my family in New York, where climbing was not accessible, but running was. I ran several times to help get my blood flowing and get in a some sort of workout. My first day in New York, I ran a four mile loop around Collin’s Park; a run that I had probably done 1000 times. When I started, my lungs and legs rejoiced in the oxygen rich air of sea level. I felt as if I was ticking off six minute miles, just like I used to, but I knew I was probably running much slower. Regardless, I felt great. I charged up the hill at the back of the lake, floated over the turtle backed roads and uneven slate sidewalks, with visions of the runner I used to be flashing through my mind’s eye.

As I ran through the neighborhoods of my youth, I reflected on the denim and flannel town that taught me so much. It is where my family, friends, teammates, teachers, and coaches lived. It’s also where I grew to know so many people.

As fatigue began to grow, starting in my feet and traveling up my legs, to eventually engulf most of my body, I began to consider stopping to see some people I used to know. While it would be nice and give my body a chance to recover, I realized that I am now an outsider, looking in. Knocking on their door would be like intruding on their life, to just end up running away again. So, I kept on running, passing cats in windows, new buildings, and houses that differed in my memory only in the color of their paint.

As I rounded a corner and headed down Sacandaga road, the road I used to walk every day as I went to high school, fatigue began to retreat, and my legs regained their spring. I felt again the runner I was. I passed the house I grew up in, which is in much better shape than when I moved out. I thought it ironic that my old house was in better shape, while I was in worse shape. The run completed, I relished the sweaty afterglow.

A few days later, I ran again up in Northville, New York. When I finished that run, I thought about how running was my first active love. I thought how the past couple runs reconnected me with my first love. It reminded me of that photograph we all might have in the basement, packed away in a box, of our first girlfriend or boyfriend. One that probably looks nothing like them today; one that might be crumpled and faded, but that when we see it, reminds us of the cool feeling of a first love. While I can’t be the runner I was, I can still connect with what it was like to experience that first active love.