Almanac

Equinox - n. (Middle English, from Anglo-French or Medieval Latin; Anglo-French equinocce, from Medieval Latin equinoxium, alteration of Latin aequinoctium, from aequi- equi-, equal + noct-, nox night) 1. either of the two points on the celestial sphere where the celestial equator intersects the ecliptic; 2) either of the two times each year (as about March 21 and September 23) when the sun crosses the equator and day and night are everywhere on earth of approximately equal length


Early Saturday morning -- just after midnight according to the almanac -- autumn began in New England. The autumnal equinox also marked the end of the first third of the cross-country season. The early meets are over and the first invitationals have been held. Much has been learned about which teams are strong and which are not, and much is left to be revealed (Who will step up to become the fifth runner on a contending team? Who will be healthy when it matters? Who will run well in the cold, in the rain, in the mud?).

For me, the beginning of autumn means more runs in twilight at the end of day, and more mornings when I wake up in the dark. Because I do most of my runs at the boundaries of night and day, I spend a lot of time poring over the times of sunrise and sunset, obsessing over the loss of daylight hours, feeling the rush of the seasons as we head towards inevitable winter. I mourn the loss of summer, and the pleasure of getting up before the heat of the day when the streets are mostly deserted. I miss leaving work in the afternoon and having hours of lingering day to run on trails. In June and July, it's an easy bargain that I make between the need to work and the desire to play. Those eight hours in the middle of the day that are sacrificed to gainful employment are surrounded by a nearly equal amount of daylight for exercise. All the good things in life seem inexhaustible.

But not in the fall; not at this time of year. Now my morning run is under the stars and my afternoon run takes place in the shadows of gathering dusk. Running becomes a nocturnal activity, s it almost was yesterday... when chores and errands delayed my run until late in the afternoon.

It was Sunday, and as long as there isn't snow on the ground, Sunday is a day for running on the trails. I had not run earlier because of other commitments, but I was unwilling to give up this pleasure, so I drove out to Lincoln as the sun was going down, and began my run in the woods knowing that by the time I finished, it would be hard to see the trail in front of me in the gloom.

It was a memorable run. I felt extraordinarily alert, my senses made keener by the lateness and strangeness of the hour, which added an aura of danger to every step. I knew there I had only a few minutes before the disc of the sun dropped below the horizon. The trail ahead of me was already losing its clarity - was that a rock or a leaf? -- as I went into and out of the thicker parts of the woods.

In fading light, one has the illusion of flying through a run, regardless of whether you are actually running fast. That's how I felt as I negotiated turns in the woods, thinking about all the falls I have ever had from small mis-steps or when a root was in exactly the wrong place. At the same time, I felt pleasure in running in a familiar place, where the fading light had transformed my route. After twenty minutes, the sun went down. As I continued through the darker parts of the woods, I felt my eyes adjusting. When I emerged into a clearing, the light of the evening sky seemed surprisingly sufficient. Back into the woods a moment later, and for a few moments I had to strain to see the ground in front of me.

I finished my run in the parking lot of the Lincoln train station. My legs were a little tired, but I was excited, energized. I could see cars on the nearby road with their headlights on. A good run, I thought. It's good for it not to be too easy.