The Coyote and the Skunk
Reconnecting to the primal reasons we run
When you get up to run at 4 AM you are bound to see some crazy things. When I lived in Florida, I would run into people coming in from the night before, canals full of alligator eyes, wild cats, snakes, and occasionally another runner. I remember one time when I jumped over what I thought was a log laying across a sidewalk only to realize in midair that it was an alligator that was cooling himself on the concrete. I haven’t been up that early in the few years since we moved to Ohio, and truth be told, my runs have turned into simply a function of general fitness. I haven’t been able to find the fire or connection that I once had, that drove me to run at all hours, through swamps, up mountains, and even through spring break parties.
I went to bed last night knowing that something had to change. I needed a spark to ignite my lazy lifestyle, and it had to come from running. I decided to get up at 4 AM for the first time in Ohio and head out. My previous dawn runs had acquainted me with the deer, rabbits, and skunks that frequented my running paths, but I had never really seen anything else.
I needed something to be different today, and it was. About three miles into my ten-mile run I saw something moving on the path ahead. It was quick and darted off into the field on my left. I realized almost immediately that it wasn’t a deer, but rather a coyote. Coyotes used to be prevalent in my area, but their population was thinned out when they started eating people’s small dogs that wandered off. As a result, dogs enjoyed a greater sense of security, but skunks started to appear in large numbers during the spring and fall.
I made eye contact with the coyote, and as we stared at each other my heart rate elevated trying to see what he would do. He simply stared at me as I ran by, and the extra adrenaline helped me pick up the pace. I hit my turnaround a couple of miles later and came back the same way, this time very aware of the potential for another coyote run in. Suddenly I could make out two coyotes about 50 feet ahead in the field sprinting and chasing something down. The speed, grace, and intention behind their movements let me know that they were focused on the hunt and little else. My presence didn’t even register to them until I was nearly past where they were enjoying their meal. I could tell by the smell that they had caught up to one of the skunks that had become comfortable in the open fields.
As I finished the three and a half miles I had left on my run, I couldn’t help but analyze what I had seen. I woke up this morning needing a sign, or something that would reignite my passion for running. I honestly expected it to be an outstanding time, a longer than expected effort, or just a nostalgic connection to my time pushing to the edge of my potential. Instead, the sign I got was a predator chasing down breakfast.
I had never been great at gleaning meaning from symbols or identifying metaphors or themes in literature. This morning however I found the symbolic connection in what I had seen. I was the skunk. I had become complacent like the lazy skunk. I had frequently seen the skunks saunter around heavily trafficked areas, walk fearlessly past wooded spaces, and make themselves comfortable on the footpaths in our neighborhood. Since the coyotes were chased off, there were no natural predators or anything to keep the skunks sharp and alert. Today I witnessed what happens when you get too comfortable, a little lazy, and maybe a bit entitled.
I wasn’t sure how to tell my wife the story of what I had seen. I wanted to tell her what I saw, and what was going through my head, but I immediately realized that telling her I came a stone's throw away from two predators eating a skunk was probably not the best course of action. She had already spent more than a decade worrying about me when I headed out the door at ridiculous times. She had already cringed at stories of drunk drivers, alligators, snakes, stray dogs, unmarked trails to nowhere, and all manners of potentially fatal run-ins. She had been calmed by my lack of wanderlust in Ohio, and I couldn’t take that from her.
I decided to simply let her know that I had an awesome run and that I was going to start pushing harder again. I headed to the basement to change, and couldn’t help but grab an old training log. Just a few years earlier I was running 70 to 80 miles a week, and taking on any challenge I could find. I immediately started to feel a bit desperate to get back to work. I could feel the hunger, and suddenly the obstacles and challenges that had led to my sedentary lifestyle began turning into motivation. Riding a bit of the post-run high, I could start to understand what happened to that skunk, and also grasp the focus, dedication, and desperation that led those coyotes to that field. The surge of adrenaline I felt just making eye contact with the animal sparked a fight or flight reaction that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I had felt that surge sitting on the floor of the Grand Canyon completely drained with more than 20 miles left to go to get back to civilization. I remembered that sensation as I chased down the guy in front of me to take my first age group win. I tasted it every time I looked at my watch and realized I could do something special if I just pushed it past where I was comfortable.
For the first time in years, I was starting to feel like a predator again, and not the lazy skunk I had become. The excuses, schedules, COVID, and a dozen other things had pushed my inner coyote to the point where something desperate had to happen, all seemed like an afterthought. Running isn’t what you do, but who you are. Runners exist on the fringe waiting to make their moves like Pre, Katherine, Meb, and the Toads. 2020 has given every runner an excuse to forget that legacy, but also an opportunity to find it.
I may be going to bed tonight with a little stench of the skunk on me, but my shoes are by the back door. Tomorrow morning the coyote is running back to the edge.
