When the sky is bright and the air is fresh and warm it easy to see how and perhaps why 68 runners would choose to be part of this amazing world of self-transcendence running. I am at the race now though in the dwindling seconds of a Saturday night, which in moments, will stride into the even inkier dark wet blackness of a dismal Sunday. There is a constant drizzle sweeping down across the course, which is making threats that it wants to escalate into something a whole lot more cantankerous.
The great percentage of the runners have slipped away. They have been pulled away by schedules and fatigue and perhaps for some, just to escape so briefly the relentless torment of rain that pitter pats upon your head and discovers mischievous ways to seep beneath your most protective gear.
The malicious pleasure of moisture is that if it hasn’t got you on the way down, than it will seep up into your shoes and socks from dark puddles that pretend to be shallow but when you splash down upon them they belie their true damp soaking power.
Yet in the heart of the great night, as I look out across the fields, there are still runners making their way here and there around the loop. They continue to persevere because it is in this effort they are finding a joy that is only to be found by a chosen few. This experience is just for they alone, who felt the call from within, and had the courage to answer.