My runs are on black roads. Sometimes dry, sometimes glistening with rain or sparkling with ice. They are lit by orange sodium lights. And at times by a white circle from the headtorch I wear. The circle bobs if I am tired but it lights my way and illuminates the eyes of cats, rabbits and foxes. The eyes glow green as the animals hide in the hedges or disappear as they run from my footsteps which pat, pat, pat on the road.
The road scrolls away under my feet, as though the black asphalt surface is moving rather than my feet. The world is my treadmill.
I know I am a night runner. When it is dark outside, this is my time to run. I am surefooted. Night sighted. And I have a badge of my night running membership: a small blister on my right ear where the buckle on my headtorch rubs on long runs.
I do not care about fashion. Who is there to see me? My clothes are hardwearing, comfortable, warm. When it is cold I wear a buff over my head with my face peeking out, like a balaclava, or like a turtle peeking out from its shell. I would probably look silly, if there was someone there to see me. But there is not.