It’s not exercise exactly, it’s more like meditation — a trail run so often there are no longer any unknown turns, mysterious hill climbs or descents. It’s a place where the rhythm of each footfall echos to the core, where thoughts go silent, movement takes over, and body does what it was
born to do. It’s a trail that feels like home: more restful than sleep, more refreshing than the sea, a place to come back to year after year.
It’s not just runners. Rock climbers have the route where every movement flows, growing from the last like a melody, a climb where every handhold hangs familiar, and the anchors, like an old friend, wait above.
Cyclists have a road where every turn is etched in memory, where the banking bicycle bounces from side to side, a dance that no longer requiring rehearsal. Back country skiers all know a trail that arcs and curves its way forward from some distant memory. Skis greet each pitch effortlessly, winding their way through the snow like pigeons bound for home, free of thought or pilot input. Mountaineers have a peak where every step feels etched in the ice, familiar and secure, with a summit vista that no longer needs no camera.
These days aren’t about exercise. They aren’t about breaking personal records, pushing the grade or improving the pace. They are visits to old friends, a way to unwind, to let go. These laps are not about mileage or numbers; those may matter on different days, but not here. Here, it’s just about movement, about rhythm, about home.
Lace up, it’s about time for a visit.