There are no mountains that call me. No glacier fed streams of the gentlest teal to drink from. No salty air stimulating my nose with every breath. I do not live in the setting of adventure.
I live in the land of corn and soy beans. Endless rows of mono-cropped plants scientifically modified to withstand everything. The only interruption is a tree line here and there in a futile attempt to keep true chemically depleted topsoil from blowing away. This agricultural creation is as close to nature as I can get. Where is the adventure here?
Perhaps a skunk, a coyote, or a muskrat will cross my path and give me something to talk about at work with the one co-worker who values running and humour. Very few people here tolerate running let alone embrace it. The constant jeers hurled from passing cars is evidence of the sentiment towards those of us who choose to continually take one step after another.
Oh how I yearn for more.
Something calls me, nay, it whispers. ‘What’s your adventure?’ And then it passes, silently. And I have no response. Yet I continue to run around and through the endless monotony. Row after row. Row after row.
I run away from some things, and run towards others. I pretend to enjoy it, and often I do. Sometimes I play little games and pretend that the birds are my spirit guides. Sometimes I make up haikus. I search for the perfect stride and wallow in my shortcomings.
My adventure isn’t the beauty of nature or the rush of a race. I do not know what my adventure is, but I want to find it.