The rain that began as a gentle patter upon the roof of the car had become a steady driving rain by the time Pastor David pulled up 
in his little red truck.
“You sure you want to do this,’ he said with a challenging grin as we both emerged from the warm, dry vehicles dressed to run?
“Sure, why not,” I replied, “I’ve can remember running in worse.” And it was true; like the rain pouring down from the gray sky, so too did the flood of memories come roaring into my head while I had waited for him to arrive.
It was all good.
My first recollections took me back to when I was just a toddler. The brown water swirled beneath my father’s legs as he waded through the flooded waters of the Wabash River in southern Indiana on the outskirts of the little town of New Harmony. Due to heavy rains and ground already saturated by melting snows, the river had spilled over its banks and into the lower pastures of K.D. Owen’s farm, where my paternal grandfather lived and managed. I watched in amazement at the fluid patterns passed beneath us, me safely on dad’s shoulders. I begged and squirmed to get down, wanting to become one with the moment, but he refused; the water was too deep at this point. It wasn’t until we had reached higher ground that he gave in and allowed me the chance to set my feet down into the cold, frigid chocolate-colored water. I held his hand as we trudged together under a gray sky, much like today. I would later come down with double pneumonia, my second time in as many years of my young life. The time in the hospital is another story, another chapter. Looking back, I’m not positive if the cold, wet feet preempted my illness, but it was evident that the event was significant enough to register a memory so distant, so deep that it came to mind today.
As we started off, the gravel road was covered in standing water which caused us to look for carefully chosen footholds of higher ground. The standing water reminded me of mud-filled trenches covered with barbed wire. My mind flashed back to basic training at Lackland AFB in Texas, nearly 30 years earlier. Another overcast day, another deluge that buried the obstacle course we were 
scheduled to run that morning in several inches of water. Our Drill Instructor, the epitome of being “Gung Ho”, Sgt. Smith, whipped his troops into a fury and with the spirit of Rough Riders charging San Juan Hill he roared a rebel yell and cut us lose as we attacked the course through the driving rain; our only enemy, the weather. My government issue horn-rimmed glassed, also known as “BC” which was short for Birth Control, referring to how much attraction you could expect from the ladies when you wore them, immediately began fogging up to the point they were useless. Trying to wipe them clear was futile, so I stuck them in my pant pockets and charged onward. Being nearsighted, the obstacle course immediately became ten-fold more difficult; especially considering the fact I could no longer discern distances. This became evident when the leaping from one slick horizontal telephone pole to the other found me planted firmly upon my groin, a severe pain to which any man can attest and the crack of the BC’s snapping in my pocket; despair one can only imagine. From there, the course only got worse. The image came to mind again of crawling face down under barbed wire, through a rain soaked trench filled to the brim with water the color of the contents of a newborn’s diaper. Needless to say, holding your breath and forgetting how cold and nasty you felt were the only options to passing this most uncomfortable part of the course. Compared to other branches of the armed forces, I’m sure this is quite humorous, but at the time it seemed quite unnecessary; but then again, we had Sgt. Gung Ho leading the way, and so it was.
But I was back, and we were now well on our way down the American Tobacco Trail, enjoying the day, regardless of the weather that continued to fall from the sky. “Hey, at least we weren’t crawling through the mud puddles'” I thought to myself.
As we ran along, talking and sharing stories, it became quickly apparent to me my running partner was in much better shape, since he was able to breathe and talk while I felt as if I was turning blue. My lungs gasped for air and my legs sought redemption, but my mind pushed onward. Drifting off again, I was once more training with the Southern Indian cross country team, myself soon to be only a junior in High School. It was a privilege our coach, Steve Edwardson had arranged to help get his team in better shape. During the summer, before the season started, we were allowed to run with the college team at SIU. Although their endurance and strength surpassed my own, it didn’t stop me from trying to stay with them. They joked, laughed and told all sorts of tales while they ran. They explained to me that if you could converse while running, then you were running at a good long distance pace; one that wouldn’t overtax your body. Today, it didn’t seem to take long for my old body to quickly become overtaxed. To be totally honest, the 13 hours of working the night before and the five miles from the day before on two hours sleep was just a little much; but to forego the chance to run with another person was too great a reward to surpass, so here we were.
Onward we splashed.
By the turn around point, I knew I was getting tired when I no longer avoided the puddles; plowing straight through them now, taking the most direct route without care of how deep or cold the wetness felt on my backside. Comfort had giving way to efficiency.
As we ran, Pastor David and I talked and discussed topics close to the heart and we shared stories that I will carry with me forever. Those thoughts becoming one with the past, the places my running had taken me before.
It was then I began to rekindle the spirit of the wind.
The flood of memories were non-stop now: the forests of ages ago, the dog by my side, running as one; each watching out for the other passed through my head; struggling across the steel swinging bridge on the Isle of Palms into a freezing cold rain, as we fought to return on our long run the day of the Boston Marathon, 1983; countless quarters of pain around the track at the Citadel in Charleston SC; hot-steamy long runs down the middle of McGregor in Ft. Myers, FL., reveling in the smooth road and royal palms 
that lined the grand boulevard; those first few runs with my children on the beach at Oak Island, as if we could run forever, their little feet whirring as quickly as they could go, me floating alongside, as if in a dream; then those countless runs, when at ten miles, I could no longer feel my legs as I floated on the air of the earth as if tides of unknown seas, racing logging trucks down back roads of uncharted forests; tree lined oaks of Micanopy draping over the road as we trained in a runner’s heaven on earth.
Yes, they all came back and more.
I shall return to those long vaunted trails where spirits join and the past becomes one with the now.
And yes, it was most definitely a good run.
