No matter where I go in this life, I will never forget summer time in North Carolina, much the same way as those from the north will never forget the winters there. There are so many things to remember from my childhood, all the small cues that will, in twenty years or more, instantly transport me back to those days spent running and playing in the sunshine; climbing trees and hiking through the woods to the creek behind my parents’ house. These adventures, so normal then, appear to be almost a fantasy to me now when I think back on them. How did I never seem to get sunburned or covered in ticks from our excursions into the woods? It was truly a magical time when viewed from the eyes of a 25 year old just getting started in the “real” world.
But one of the things I will remember most strongly about summertime in the Tarheel state will not come from the years I spent playing beneath the mature oaks and long-leaf pines in my parents’ yard. It will instead come from the early years of my adulthood, the ten years or so spanning my growth from a teenager to where, and who, I am now. This memory will be of running in the late afternoons, gambling on the remaining daylight in an attempt to log those few miles right when the day reaches its coolest temperatures.
Trotting along the side of a treeless road (there never seemed to be tree cover when I needed it), the sun still baking the ground in the early evening. As each foot scuffs the pavement, I can feel that the skin on my bare legs and arms is tight from exposure to the sun, dry and dusty, even at the height of southern humidity. I continue on, one foot in front of the other, smelling the hot asphalt and hearing the cicadas singing from the bushes and trees across the fields. It’s not summer until the cicadas sing.
Yesterday, I revisited every summer of my life from 14 years old until now; running along these roads, hearing the insects humming and feeling the sun and humidity working together to intensify the heat. I trot on at my usual pace, although it feels slower, determined to finish my five miles and experiencing being both dry and sticky all at once. The world appears to be still, resting in the heat of the day, waiting for the cooler night to fall. Even the passing cars seem to be quieter, moving slower in this southern season. I smile to myself as I round the third mile, reminiscing summer mornings when my cross country team would meet to train before the day got too hot and too busy. The same cicadas sang then, the same insects buzzed in the tall grass, the same hot and sticky feeling swept over me as I ran along.
I finished my five-miler yesterday, twice as tired from the sun and heat as usual. No sooner had my pace slowed to a walk as the sweat began to pour, running down my arms and legs and dripping from my hair and nose. (My body never seems to truly sweat until after the work out, which may be its own blessing.) I walked the circle of my cul-de-sac six times before my body had cooled down enough to call it a day then proceeded to continue the circle in my air-conditioned home.
Yesterday was a summer run, just like every other summer run I’d traveled in the past, and just like every one that I’ll run in the future.
