I’ve followed the visual artist Russ Pope for a long time, and I always appreciate his “morning workout” videos—brief sketches that he starts the day with to loosen up and get the creative energy flowing. What I love most about these morning workouts is their low-stakesness, but also that Russ chooses to share them (or at least some of them). Sometimes I think the biggest barrier to writing is setting the bar too high for what is shareable. In an effort to share more and give myself an outlet for looser posts, I’m borrowing the Morning Workout concept here as a periodic sub series of this Substack. Thanks for reading.
The morning is loud with the heat. Just minutes into the run and I am already sweating. An injustice before 6 am. Though I’m not sure if I ever stopped from the day before, the overnight “low” a cruel euphemism for the hair-dryer air that blew in through the open windows, the fan overhead better suited to hypnotism than cooling.
Running up the road, I look over my shoulder and see the day dawning, bloodshot and unrepentant. The sun a murderous orb rising up to snuff out the cool breath of the night flowers and set the indigo shadows ablaze.
The trail-side brome stirs in a parched whisper as my feet beat the warm ground and a dry film of dust coats the inside of my nose, my mouth. The trail kicks up and my thoughts burn as I push against the climb. The sound in my head is as loud as the heat. A swarm of thoughts, circling and persistent as the flies. I’m tired of a lot of things, but today the sun can take the blame.
The cicadas’ song descends from the trees as I enter a forested stretch. A stream of feverish prayers, a chorus of clicking beads, that drowns out my breathing. The air is stifling with the smell of hot pine needles, a smell to me that always has the acrid tinge of cat piss.
The trail turns rough underfoot. Rock steps and exposed roots. In some places the soil slips with every step, lodging pebbles in my shoes, mean little reminders that it hasn’t rained in a while. Rain I think with a longing that borders on lust. I close my eyes for a beat and can almost imagine it, the washed green scent and cool sweet drops. The screech of a raven’s outrage shatters the air, banishing the thought. I climb on.
The second half of the climb is more exorcism than meditation. With the salt in my sweat come extruded impurities, petty comparisons and other ungenerous thoughts. Good for you if you can just sit and breathe and unthink. Being still has never worked for me—the strain and force are necessary to the process.
As the trail nears the summit, the city spreads out below me like a spilled drink. Just a few hundred feet to go now. The shade finally begins to feel cool and my sweat starts to do its work.
Today the top greets me with only a muted sense of contentment, a satisfaction that just slightly outweighs that of, say, a productive trip to the hardware store. Some runs are better than others. At least I’ve done something today. I know there is service here and I fight the urge to check my email. Any news can wait.
A short-lived breeze makes a cool pass over the summit—the snow on the far-off peaks is nearly gone, but the breeze feels like it holds the promise of cooler seasons. I haven’t carried any water with me, and I imagine I can drink in the brief lushness through my skin. Then the breeze is gone and the air becomes warm and still again. Time to get moving.
The descent is a hazy, thirsty spiral, a jolting reversal back down into the fury of the day. My arms and legs beat a violent rhythm, fighting for flow against the loose corners and embedded rock. Don’t think about water, think about your feet. Don’t think about water. When I finally re-emerge from the trees I find the sun has risen to a raging pitch, white-hot and blinding. I beeline straight for the creek.
Sometimes the best part of running is when you get to stop. At the water’s edge I lose my hat, shirt, socks and shoes. An instant splash and I am submerged in the quenching cold, breath-robbing stillness. So this is where the snow has gone.
I pull myself onto a sunbaked boulder to dry off. Tingling, calm and new, now I can sit and breathe and unthink. It was a good run.
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