Running in the same woods, twice

 Driven outside to escape the world within; the man laces his trainers, pushes thoughts of work aside and turns out of the door.

Feet hit the ground, the mud, the dirt, the puddle, occasionally the snow.

The same loop (always clockwise, less uphill that way), the same wood, the same man.

But no one ever steps in the same wood twice.

The seasons turn. Dark, cold, no leaves. Rainy, wetter, budding trees. Puffs of green, bursts of life. Days lengthen, sweat pouring. Autumn relief. Leaves falling. And back to dark, cold, bare trees.

The seasons turn again. Rutted ground becomes mud; mud becomes swamp. From concrete to impassable mire, sucking at shoes, splattering legs. In the persistent downpour, paths swell into rivers, steps become splashes. His initial reluctance to get wet lost as he plunges into the flow. A trail of destruction through the house when he returns home. But as the year moves on, water dries away, returning to mud, then back to ruts that trip and tease and turn the ankle.

And they turn again. Each time the same, each time different. Clouds, sunsets, smoke, fog. Running in darkness, his world reduced to a cone of torchlight. Isolation complete, trusting his feet to know the way. Night into twilight, murky light, daylight. Black to grey to blue. Dappled shadow, puddles of sun. Sky briefly stretching across the horizon. Solstice arriving too soon, night returns again. Immeasurably at first and then a sudden tip and his outdoor life clad in sable.

The woods dance along with the seasons. Colours change, spring lustre burnished to summer gold before autumnal shades are muted back to black. Buds to shoots to tendrils to impenetrable vegetation. Branches asleep in winter, awaken, creeping their way across the paths, whipping at eyes. Down below brambles snap at ankles, tear at clothes. His thoughts creep in too, unwelcome as the tangling vines. But he pushes on and pushes them away.

He likes to think the woods are his, but he’s not alone. Foxes bold as brass, bored of raiding bins. Skittish deer and daring squirrel. Birds whose names he knows: pigeon, duck and sparrow; so many more he recognises but cannot place: swift, buzzard, swallow. Midge and mozzie, fly and wasp. People too. Walking, cycling, riding. A nod to fellow runners. And of course their dogs. Some in control, most not. Leads tangling round legs, chasing, barking, jumping up. ‘Oh he’s friendly’ belied by scratches on legs and nips at fingers. Little presents left, some wrapped, others trapped in tread, undiscovered till shoe removed.

Senses engaged in different ways. Scentless cold giving way to spring flowers onto summer bracken then autumn decay. Brief hints of grass, notes of blackberry hanging heavy before giving way to earthier tones - a wine cellared too long.

The soundtrack on loop: silence, birdsong, dogs, people. But woodland music is overlaid with his breath. Rasping in, forced out. Effort echoed in his inhalations. His footsteps add a rhythm. Trudging, thumping, bumping, pounding. Over and over and over, hitting ground and mud and dirt. Drowning out thoughts, his perspective reduced to where the next foot goes, and the one after and the one after that.

The path and the seasons follow the same course year on year. Both stay the same; both change. This one wet; that one scorched. Weather teases tree: wind and drought tear off branches, rain washes away roots, paths are blocked, alternates opened by other feet.

The man too has seasons. The helter-skelter looping round, but twisting downwards. Aches arise, tendons twinge. Some days running is reduced to walking. What once was fast now more laboured. But some days buck the tide of time, bursts of energy restored to aching limbs. Flow achieved. Though pain awaits. The memory of pain short-lived, the pain of memory lives longer though.

The reset harder each time.

The woods draw him on: feet hitting the ground, the mud, the dirt, the puddle, sometimes the snow.

But where once unrecorded, his data is now captured, shared, liked. Freedom lost in exchange for records, badges, kudos. Virtual medals for arbitrary segments. Connections with people he’ll never meet, let alone know. Timed races against the time which ebbs away from him.

And not just the speed, distance and time but also the visuals. Favourite views that appear and disappear. Solitary oaks in cornfields. Coal posts directing long dead travellers to buildings long gone. Signage separating horse from cyclist. Visual milestones that mark his way. Once his alone, now he feels compelled to share with others. Photos perfectly cropped and curated. But in perfecting he removes all that makes perfect. Motivational slogans added, hashtags curated. The beast fed. Likes harvested from unknown users. After all, if it didn’t get captured, it didn’t happen.

Endless echoes outwards. An inescapable presence on his shoulder, driving him on. In all parts of his life. Work once contained, constrained at a locale far from home, now always on; the allure of working from home a lie, he is now never not at work. The device that lets him capture his run now capturing him. Alerts, notifications, video calls, DMs, slacks. Teams that do not play together because of bad signals, both interpersonal and electronic.

It’s enough to drive him back out. Feet hitting the ground, the mud, the dirt, the puddle and rarely the snow.

The snow falls much less often than he once remembered. The wood had also stepped tentatively onto the same helter-skelter of decline. The once reliable cycle of the seasons now as muddled as him.

The machine he feeds burns through his data and burns the air around it. His runs fuel the thing he is running from.

But he pushes this from his mind as he relaces his trainers. And turns out of the door. The same loop (always clockwise, less uphill that way), a different wood, a different man.