I’m fairly confident that if most of us knew about some of the things we had coming, we’d stay indoors all day with the curtains pulled, fully involved in the Netflix main page. 

I went for a run this morning before work. I have not been sleeping well, and as such I’m taking advantage of the extended summer daylight to get outside for some cardio accomplished in relative security. Additionally, I’ve had a lot of nervous energy rebounding through my guts lately, and running is an activity I find to be a healthy and effective path to self-calibration.

I know my London neighborhood pretty well, but I’m constantly turning down new streets and pathways in an effort to make each outing feel fresh. And as I move through the world, there is usually some thought that gets knocked loose and falls into my consciousness. Did you deviate from your itinerary? This question I often encounter within the conduct of my salaried life. But when we speak of running, I could never give an answer one way or the other on this. I don’t exactly step outside with an itinerary in mind; it’s more of a 30-minute canvas that I will fill within the borders of a departure and return time. 

If you concentrated on the world above the northern city streets, you could say that the morning looked pristine. Pastel colors—the kind you see in paintings you’d never buy because they don’t look realistic enough. And the cloud density bore extra scrutiny today as the weatherpeople forecasted temperatures of at least 38C/101F. I wondered if the early sky would look differently. More immediately, I also wanted to get in as much movement as possible before we hit that temperature spike. To be outside first thing under any shade of sky is my favorite time to be outside—so here I was, crossing over the rail bridge and headed for the greener part of town for an easy run. 

On a weekday like today, I don’t have much spare time before I must be dressed and leaving for work. I can’t be too impetuous when moving around the neighborhoods; most days I’m jogging on the soccer pitches of a private school, tracing the perimeters and enjoying the temporary escapism within northwest London. Wembley Park’s arch is always in the distance— just a hair too far away for me to make it there. Instead, the massive park stays relegated as a scenic lawn ornament for me, tilting at 68° just above the tree line. 

When I was halfway through my outing, I moved to loop back to my flat. I wasn’t super motivated to take the well-worn highway route, even though I knew it was the most direct route. It’s boring and has noisy traffic that moves alongside you next to the sidewalk. As I left the fields, I did take interest in one of those friendly London signs that suggest a pedestrian path leading to some road I’ve never heard of. They’re not exactly helpful—but they do let you know that something is there. The direction pointed to an adjacent open field, and as such I deemed this immediately to the busy road up ahead. So instead of keeping on straight, I made a sudden left. Deviate from your itinerary? Lord, when do I not? For now, I was bound for the new patch of green. 

It wasn’t long before I crossed the new pitch. The sun was coming up and I looked at my watch. It was already past the time where I’d want to be arriving home to peel off my clothes and hop into the shower. Going through the morning motions I have perfected over the past four years. But I wasn’t home yet. Instead I found myself shifting into a path that was grown over thanks to summer rain and night-spinning spiders. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but this was where I’d brought myself. I found no better choice than to head in. The only way out is through. 

At some point in this decade, the path was surely utilized by human foot traffic. But now the floor was amply tiled with jumbly tree roots, ground thorns and the odd shoe I had to step over. As for the area around my head, I had to continually hunch down as the trees arched low and threatened to give me a good whack if I didn’t keep my eyes open. But that was hard. The spiderwebs—those invisible strands—they too were strung across the path in some optimistic attempt to snag idiotic human sojourners like me. I had to hold my hands up in double judo chop posture in order to keep the bulk of the fibers out of my mouth and eyes. I hate spiders. This was a dumb path to choose as it was slow going. I could have been almost home by now.

But as cliched as it sounds, during my run/walk/self-defense deviation, all the time I had a view of the rising sun coming through the trees down at the other end. My questionable decision to go this way was guaranteed to put me behind schedule, but I was too far in and there was no way I’d turn back to revisit what I’d already withstood. Deal with the spiders, and try to watch your step. This is how life works for us all. 

While it looked like I was the first person to move through those woods in years, I knew that this could not be the case. I’d like to think that I’m some kind of urban Roald Amundsen, but the reality is that I appreciate and rely quite heavily on creature comfort like the irascible London Underground. I like my comfort zone, and the fact of deviating from my general plan is always something that keeps me up at night. And furthermore, this pedestrian pathway that I was on could not have been longer than a half mile. It was only a few minutes of discomfort before I was spit out the other end to rejoin a familiar roundabout that was close to home. With only a few scratches on my legs and a  flavor of sugar free nature in my mouth— I made to the other side pretty much okay. 

By the time I got back home, the clock indeed showed that I was much later than usual. At the same time, looking at my watch, I had gone the exact same distance that I usually went. Sometimes things take a bit longer—even if it comes a price to your own internal regulations. At the end of the day, no one else would notice that I was a few minutes behind, and more importantly, in enduring some discomfort I felt an odd sense of accomplishment.

The day is now finished by my right knee still oddly chafes from whatever I scratched against while running in the woods like an 8-year-old British kid. I’m at the airport and bound for the next adventure—this one feeling more meaningful, and at the same far more uncertain. When the question returns, did you deviate from your itinerary?I’m afraid I know the answer. For the moment, I am not exactly sure how, but I do know that I’ve got some more canvas to work with. I’m looking forward to seeing how I managed to trace myself through.