On a cool, cloudy Colorado morning, I drove to the mountain town of Nederland for a run. Only a few cars passed me as I ran down the soft gravel shoulder of the road, headed toward the mountains and the Indian Peaks Wilderness. Quiet surrounded me and my thudding footfalls; the only other sounds were a light, fresh wind and the rush of a white stream that accompanied the road.
As I ran through the tiny settlement of Eldora, a collection of small log cabins set among the aspens, drivers of a couple more cars waved at me, as did a man who walked out onto his front porch with the morning newspaper. A short, muscular beige dog jogged over to greet me, then ran along ahead of me, looking back and panting, until the whining of another dog behind a wooden fence drew him away.
Slowly passing through this hushed scene on foot was something that the act of running often isn’t--relaxing.
Yet as I neared the car, the breeze on my face suddenly grew stronger. The road sloped downhill, and I picked up speed. My hair burst out of its holder, and I felt a surge of energy. Suddenly, it was no longer my body slogging along. Someone else’s legs reached out with long, strong strides. Someone else’s lungs deeply sucked the oxygen out of the thin air at 9,000’. For several powerful moments, this stranger’s body carried me through the final mile—smiling widely and saying “Ahh!”
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