Every run has its heartbeat. I am running with Nina and Tess through the early morning suburban streets of Miami. I left Alabama with Brenin twelve years ago. The intervening time has seen us run the green fields and plunging lanes of southern Ireland, the muddy woodlands of Wimbledon Common, the barren-as-boulders hills of the Pembrokeshire high country and then, finally, the sunset-golden beaches and fields of purple lavender — the way I shall always remember Languedoc. Brenin, my old friend, is gone now. His bones are buried in a sandy copse, beneath a ghost of stone that stands on the delta of the River Orb. After a long detour, for me at least, this is a return of sorts. A few days ago, we all moved to Miami. Poor old Nina and Tess, they have become old and they’re not really capable of these runs any more. I’ve been in denial about this, but it ends here. Today is the last time I shall ever run with them. From now on, it will just be gentle walks. A little more than a year later they will both be dead.
