Wilderness Running

When I go running, I have a couple of routes that I tend to stick with. They are familiar and allow me to easily judge my progress. But occasionally, like today, I will venture out of the norm for a little variety a la Robert Frost.

I decided to follow an unknown trail off my usual city streets and into some protected natural lands. This path led me past a large pond I never knew existed, a sleeping homeless man, a family of rabbits, and all assortment of wild growths. At one point my running became walking, as I used my arms for machetes to clear away the overgrowth blocking my path and tried not to slip or twist my ankle along the uneven ground.

This was quite different from my usual jaunt: more Outback Jack than Road Runner. It was a worthy adventure.

Eventually the path emptied back into civilization: a housing development that looked less than five years old. I went from the isolation of wilderness to being surrounded by Suburbia within seconds.

This neighborhood I came upon was oh-so-well groomed; not a single house had a lawn looking like it hadn’t been mowed just that week. The cars were all nice and shiny, the house sidings and paint-jobs pristine. This complex even had its own rock-face sign at the entrance, proudly declaring Somethingorother Estates (why does every place have to be a bloody “estate” these days?).

I promptly exited American Dreamland and found my way back home. As I was on the final stretch, a thought struck: that suburban complex felt surreal, particularly compared to the wilderness bordering it. Everything was so “perfect”—everybody had everything just the way it should be, at least according to some standards.

And it was all so much rubbish. Funny how I envied the sleeping homeless man then.