Quick text reads: Trails 9 am Casino, Chestnut Ridge Park. These few short words are a loaded gun as I look at the forecast for tomorrow morning and see that it's to be your typical November morning in Western New York. 35 degrees, clammy breeze, light rain. Ugh, perfect. "Trails", as any mudder knows, can be construed as hilly, painful and exhilarating. It’s a bittersweet prospect that fills one with dread and excitement. How could I refuse? I know that I'll end up muddy, perhaps bloody? But I know I will feel more alive than I do after any ordinary run on the roads. Those old roads have become so mundane! So it's up at dawn to feed the dog, slurp coffee, eat cereal with the kids, slurp more coffee and up to the park in mud crusted trail shoes, cooler of Sports drink, and post run beer. I'm pumped now even though I know I'm slightly underdressed, which means nothing once we get legs churning in the woods. Blood will warm my bones. Camaraderie will warm my thoughts. Six of us show and stand around cars stretching, jogging in place, cracking jokes, but it's the trails that we want now. It's the trails that we need! Because by engaging in this challenging footwork of roots, grass, stones, slippery ravines, we forget about the toil of running and are boys at play. Like so many childhood days of running free, wading creeks, digging fingers into mud slimed slopes. Not caring about getting dirty. The pure, cleansing, breathless joy of hanging with friends and losing oneself in the Moment! This brief moment of childhood revisitation and cleansing mud! So 7 miles later (according to the Garmin), which has a real feel of more like 10 miles, we compare notes, playfully mock, recount wipeouts and have that crisp post-run beer. We swear and brag. We are children again. And can’t wait until we get a chance to dread this good thing some other day.