I slip out of bed just as the nectarine dawn turns into the grey light of early morning. My boyfriend sleeps deeply beside me, mouth open a bit and arms flayed about. He can't understand my desire to rise this early, and secretly I'm glad. I’m selfish with my mornings –- they are mine and I don't want to share them with anyone, nor mar them with noise and conversation.

I pull on shorts and slip my feet into well-worn runners, then sneak out the front door, flinching as the screen door slaps shut, breaking the fragile silence of morning. Still a bit bleary-eyed, I start the ignition in the car, cranking the heat. It's early spring, and mornings are still chilly and damp.

Normally, on these mornings I would merely tie a house key into my shoelaces and head down the street to where a narrow trail creates a break in the trees along the road, and then disappear into it for a half-hour or 45 minutes. This morning, though, I crave something longer, harder, wilder. The 15-minute drive I make to satiate that desire will be worth it.

I nurse a coffee as I drive, and feel my mind and body wake up. There is no music in the car, only the soft whoosh of the heater. Last night's rain lies heavy on the road and in the forest mist rises off the trees, creating low fog that hangs in patches and breaks up the green of the hillsides. There is little traffic, and I arrive at my destination quickly.

The parking lot is empty, and the trailhead sits in front of me. I go through my ritual internal argument of whether or not to wear a sweatshirt, knowing that I will take it off halfway through my run, but dreading that initial chill of getting going. I leave it on and head through the doorway that the trees have created over the trail. A few drops of water slide off the leaves and land on the back of my neck and I am off, slow at first, then faster as the last of my night's sleep leaves my body.

Gradually, that feeling of lightness, of floating across the ground takes over, and I am lost in the feeling. My feet fall silently on the soft, dark earth, and I watch them move over and around obstacles on the trail. Only the sound of my breath is in my ear, then the occasional birdcall, then the ripple of something moving in the water as I skirt a lake.

The trail opens for a while and the sun is hot on my now heated skin. I look out over a sea of rolling, green hillsides, each one dotted with cliffs of granite. Then I plunge once again into the cool air of the forest. Slugs lounge on the trail, and I move to step around them, but cannot avoid all of them. For now, life is nothing more than this simple, rhythmic beating of heart, breath and feet.

An hour and a half later, the trail finishes its loop, leaving me within sight of my car. I slow to a walk and feel my breath and heartbeat slow with me. Grabbing a bottle of water out of the trunk, I stretch by the side of the car, sucking in deep breaths of the morning air. I know that this feeling will stay with me all day.

Back at my house, I slip off my muddy shoes, leaving them on the porch outside. On my way to the shower I stop to kiss my boyfriend and wish him a good morning as he begins to wake. His day is only just beginning, but mine is already complete.