The Beach Runner

I've moved down to CA for a month. It sucks being away from my wife, but she's extremely busy with a heavy class load and I thought I could go down to California and make some money. We said difficult goodbyes on Thursday. Today I ran from my house to the beach in Huntington Beach.

"It's a beautiful night for a run, huh?" I said to a guy with a dog at the beach.

"Ya, it's perfect right now and in the morning."

"Do you go running a lot?"

"Usually I run six miles every morning. I like to run on the sand because it really strengthens your legs. I've found when you put on running shoes after sand running you feel stronger and more stable."

We parted ways and I sat down on a log. Then I turned back and watched the guy walk away with his dog, and it hit me: I really missed my wife. I missed her companionship, her love, and her support. I missed seeing her next to me in the mornings and when I go to bed. I missed her always asking me for a small "bitesy" of food. I ran home and the next day I woke up, quit the job I had, and drove home to her.

Some conversations, like this one, seem inconsequential. But the moment right after a conversation ends could be the most important. After every conversation with a stranger there is a small moment when I am more introspective. My senses feel heightened. I think of it like a "runner's high," instead it's a "talker's high." And it was in that moment that I made the decision to come home. My wife's smile, the ten-hour drive . . . all can be traced back to a guy with a dog at the beach.