Here’s to More Morning Runs Bathed in Blue*

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Fall typically comes late to San Diego, if it comes at all. The season is too often marred by furnace-like blasts of brutal heat and scorched earth rather than mottled clouds rolling in to christen thirsty landscapes with wave upon wave of downpours. 

 

Fall was my favorite season as a child raised along the Eastern Seaboard. I looked forward to the drop in humidity and crisp air that signaled a fresh slate for the school year, the end of long hours of summer boredom or busyness. The best days were those that fell under Indian summer—cool at night, hot at the peak of day. Fall was my favorite season as a younger adult too, the nippy mornings heralding a change in routine and wardrobes, the sidewalks and roads littered with calico-colored leaves. Running always improved in the fall, with far more official opportunities to test speed and endurance on a USATF-sanctioned course.

 

We get a milder, delayed dose of that brand of season here, with deciduous trees lining road medians and postage-stamp-sized front yards shedding in late November, maybe early December. Winds by then will have shifted, swooping down from the north, rather than off the deserts to the east. No one is allowed to use wood-burning fireplaces here anymore, so you don’t get that distinctive smoky smell to stir memories of hearth-like warmth. Instead, the palms and desiccated pines give off … nothing.

 

The real trigger for fall here is the changeup in daylight and drop in early morning temps. Suddenly you walk out in your shorts and short sleeves and feel underdressed. The other day it was 45 degrees when I stepped out for an easy 3-miler. I pined for my gloves the entire trip.

 

I love that I can again head out (if temporarily) by 5:30 a.m. weekdays and witness the advent of a new day, rather than creep around in darkness or wait it out and risk being late to that 7:30 Zoom call. I love the deep shade of blue that blankets the world, if only briefly. When it’s dark, I stick close to home and am self-conscious of how loud I breathe, how hard my feet strike pavement. I don’t want to wake my neighbors, one of whom once got up and violently shut his bedroom window on my fourth or fifth rotation.

 

Now, with clocks turned back an hour, I am again liberated from the safety of my immediate surroundings. I can once more explore familiar corners of my community or do annoying loops in someone else’s development. I can greet the dog owners who surreptitiously convert ballfields into dog parks. I can cross busy streets still void of fast-moving cars. Importantly, I can see who is on the sidewalk ahead of me much earlier, while there’s time to move aside to avoid potential COVID exposure.

 

I can also peer into those huge homes up the hill from us on evening walks, given it’s dark so early again. If high school tracks were open, I could do speedwork with relative anonymity.

 

I used to prefer running in the dark, especially during the heat of summer. I felt special, and truly alone with my thoughts. But then, six years ago at this time of year, I fell and broke my hand on a shadowy run. Since then, I’ve been unable to shake the sensation of falling when running up or down a hill, the fear of tripping on a road bump I can’t see coming. I also no longer run that fast, so I worry I can no longer outrun a predator—two- or four-legged.

 

Still, I’m glad to pull out my long-sleeved T-shirts and Lycra capris. And my yellow Polar fleece vest I’ve now worn for 24 years. Oh, let’s not forget my jeans that feel looser than when I put them away last May. My cable-knit sweaters that need a good airing. 

 

There’s plenty to enjoy when you live in the land of endless summers. But let’s not forget the importance of moving into and out of the transitions. 

 

*It just occurred to me this color may conjure political connotations given we’re heading into elections. No such connection was intended, though may I just say thank you to all voters. The turnout is nothing short of amazing, and it’s good to know so many people still care. 

 

 

 

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