Fog banks in thick this morning. A May storm, with promises of deep snow, or perhaps nothing. A morning to ride. Or to run. I decide to run. The light tromp of the pace on the dirt, moist, cold, spring. Engulfed in my own world, shrouded by the white. The only sounds – the footsteps, my own breathing, the tinkle of Stella's collar next to me. Thick is the only way I can describe it. I labor up the first hill – three weeks at sea level and a wicked cold will do that, but once the downhills begin I fall into a rhythm, and the pine trees, some freshly cut, some ancient, surround me, smells of pine wafting through the moisture. I am wet. My fleece hoody with a coat of dew, a light sweat on my legs, torso and head. Over dressed slightly, yet it's nippy out too. Wind down the trails and around the lake, completely blinded to the world. As I pass, the sound of a duck family flapping across the water surface echoes across the fog. It could be anywhere – northern Manitoba, a distant lake in Yellowstone or my very own backyard. I begin the climb back home. Falling into rhythm, breathing harder, heart beat faster. Up we go, Stella in tow, playing nice and grinning, for she could run this loop in 1/4 the time it takes me to run it. Up, up, up, over the top, up the switchback, past the bench and then down again. A finish sprint to the road, opening it up, feeling alive at 7:42 in the morning. A perfect start to a perfect foggy day, even if I do have to get a root canal in an hour.