Confesiones a un Árbol: Seven and a Half Miles

SEVEN AND A HALF MILES

At five in the morning, the town of Rollinsford is still asleep, and its streets are deserted. Nature, however, does not sleep: fauna and flora are awake and vibrant since the break of dawn. In this mixture of stillness and commotion, I move forward with a steady, measured jog.

I acquired the habit of running in Europe about twenty years ago. I started with a short distance and gradually extended it until I reached a point where I couldn't add a single step more: twelve and a half kilometers.

Years later, I moved to Rollinsford, a small forested spot in New Hampshire, USA, and here I found the perfect itinerary for my run: empty rural roads teeming with vegetation and wildlife.

On Saturdays and Sundays, I get up at dawn, do some warm-up exercises, and head out. Always the same distance. Nowadays, I run for different reasons than I had twenty years ago. Now it is part of my weekly routine, and at fifty-one years old, it helps maintain my weight and a healthy mind. Initially, it was a chance cure I found for the harsh moments of solitude and depression.

I don't think I was very sporty during my years in Peru. I loved soccer, but I wasn't good—perhaps a gritty right-back and defensive midfielder, but nothing more. Years later, those matches became mere excuses for drinks. More beers than goals. And the "spare tire" began to expand along with my weight.

This morning I head out for my run, and a small snake startles me at the doorstep. I don't believe in omens; I clear it with a long stride and keep going. I run about two miles and leave behind the more residential part of Rollinsford, cross Route 4, and through Sligo Road, I venture into the rural heart of the town. To my left, the Salmon Falls River distills a dense vapor resulting from the clash of temperatures between day and night. Power lines rise above the road; on one of these cables, a large, strong squirrel chases a more delicate one. I wonder if it will catch it and if they will have a happy—and electrifying—ending.

At the end of Sligo Road, I turn left toward Baer Road. To the east, beyond the pastures and behind a tangle of trees, the Sun King crouches. I can't see its fiery disk yet, but its glow breaks over the treetops. I feel the first drops of sweat tracing my face, dripping from my nose and chin onto the pavement. A flock of wild turkeys crosses the road and blocks my path. I wait in motion. I resume my pace and pass that bend in the road where yesterday, just five steps away, a large, beautiful deer stared at me. It was so tall that its eyes were at the same level as mine. I slowed my pace so as not to scare it, but the deer fled, bounding through the air.

At the end of Baer Road is the intersection with Gulf Road. I reach a "STOP" sign, turn around, and head back. Now, the west is to my left. I’ve already covered four miles. I pause so a turtle can cross the road. I don’t have all the time in the world, so I go around it and pick up my pace. At this point, instinctively, I look up at the blue sky, as if searching in the distance for an image I saw days ago: an eagle with prey in its talons—judging by the tail waving in the air, I’d say it was a rat.

A few steps ahead, to my left, lie two fallen trees. They are so close together that the clods of earth at their bases kiss on the ground, and their swarm of roots intertwines like wild hair. I imagine them as a pair of lifelong lovers whom the end could not separate, and whose roots continue to share memories of better times. Running is one of the favorite moments of my week. I don’t carry music with me. I don't want to be distracted; there is so much inspiration on my path, and I want to get drunk on all the beauty that surrounds me.

By this point, I am back at the intersection of Baer Road and Sligo Road, but this time I continue along the former, which should also lead me to Route 4. The Sun King is already visible in the east; the fatigue is overwhelming, and there are too many deep drops and steep slopes on the road. My heart pounds hard in my chest, and my breath is labored. With the gallop of my heartbeat come the ghosts of old loves. I see their smiles and their charms. Some wish to linger, fluttering in my thoughts. They are welcome for a moment; then I dismiss them to continue sketching poems or stories in my mind.

I have reached the crossing of Route 4 and Robert Road; it’s an urban-rural entrance to residential Rollinsford. And it is the last stretch of my route. The trees still paint the landscape green. Squirrels scurry everywhere. Toads and frogs croak in the stagnant waters. Wild ducks and geese cut through the air with their cacophonous honking. The warbling of birds turns the morning into a symphony of sounds. And between the notes of the score, the verses of the poet Heraud come to my mind: “I never laugh at death. It simply happens that I am not afraid to die among birds and trees.”

I approach the last hill of my run; the area is mostly open field. The wind picks up; it looks like it’s going to rain, and the birds flutter restlessly. I head down the hill. I reach the bottom. Then I push myself to climb while exclaiming a phrase I shout every time I’m here: “Go Eduardo!” The birds are startled above my head; beside me, the branches of three willow trees seem to jolt as well. And beyond a stretch of lawn, in one of the houses, a woman in a nightgown opens a window curtain and quickly closes it again. I have no doubt that to whoever is listening, she says: “It’s the same crazy guy from every weekend.”

Finally, I arrive at the streets of my neighborhood; a person here and there has already taken their dogs out for a walk. I am exhausted, and my legs feel as swollen as if they were an elephant’s. A few more blocks and I’ll see my cat, Kitty, waiting for me in front of my house. I greet an early-rising neighbor who is leaning against his car smoking a cigarette. And then I spot Kitty.

My cat rubs its back against my legs. I walk in my backyard, trying to relax and quiet the heaving of my breath. I go inside the house. My family is still asleep. I don't get in the shower. I grab my laptop and begin to write down the twelve hundred words that precede this final period.

New Hampshire, USA

July, 2012