“Okay but, I might not be able to keep up,” she says nervously. The road ahead is narrowing; a mile back it curved sharply near the town green where she can see scattered figures kicking a soccer ball in the gathering dusk, and began to slope gently up the hill. “Oh, so you’re already intimidated by my athleticism?” he teases, but the thing is that she is, yes, definitely. “Your legs are twice as long as mine!” she protests. This trail run will mark the first time that they’ve run together: a milestone which is particularly monumental to her.
“Can we make our plan for after?” he asks. “Plans! My favorite thing,” she says back, giving him a sideways smile, and he grins back because he does know this about her. “I think we should shower and then walk up and split the burger at the bar, and try at least one cocktail you’ve never tasted.”
“I think I might not get past the shower-with-you part but if there is tequila I will do my level best.” She has one leg folded underneath her and she’s looking partly at him and partly at the deepening forest, its cool and inviting greenery whooshing past.
“I forgot! We can get the spinach artichoke cheese buns and you can have the gooey inside part,” he says.
“Oh well in that case, God, forget the shower and don’t even think about trying to hold my hand at dinner because my hands will be extremely busy,” she responds in partial jest, but she does take the cheese buns very seriously. They arrive on a small white plate, two arranged side by side, their tight spirals obscured by bits of crispy cheddar. As soft and tender as a Parker House roll, they pull apart to reveal a savory swirl of bright green filling and gooey cheese. Spinach, she knows, and artichoke—because the name says so—but there’s a flavor she can’t entirely put her finger on. They’re hidden on the bottom of the menu along with other sides (charred Brussels sprouts with a fish sauce vinaigrette, roasted squash with sage, honey butter new potatoes), as if they weren’t the best thing to eat on the entire Eastern seaboard.
A casual, companionable run shouldn’t make her this nervous. Most of her friends thrive on social jogging: They meet after work and join the throngs of evening runners and city running clubs, all clad in their Lululemon and assorted race t-shirts (Vine to Wine 5K! Virginia Beach Doughnut Run! Grand Teton Half Marathon!) . They chit-chat. They clock their miles and their times. Running for them is all about the communal atmosphere (two of her friends even met their spouses in running groups—her friend Suzanne’s wedding invitation was designed to look like a marathon running bib with the wedding date as the number).
She doesn’t like to run with anyone—not really—unless you count her sister or a very small handful of friends with whom she doesn’t feel obligated to talk.
This, she supposes, is surprising given how essential running is to her very being. She chafes at labeling herself a runner because it sounds so definitive, like she has to inhabit it fully, like she’d have to be a runner with a capital R who broadcasts their split time and discusses insoles and energy gels.
But the truth is that she ran her first 10K when she was fourteen and ever since, her preferred form of exercise is a run, whether it’s two miles or 12 miles.
It began as so many habits do: by watching and mimicking her mother, who is a serious runner—but not serious in the competitive way. She’s the truly legitimate sort who runs in an old cotton t-shirt and battered running shoes, who has never owned a running watch, who doesn’t need to talk about it; for her, it’s not about the trappings of it, but the act itself.
She suspects her mother would say that she needs it nearly as much as she needs oxygen: the rhythmic beating of your heart, the rushing sound of blood in your ears, the gentle whooshing pull of a deep breath in and a quick breath out. The slight give of the dirt trail beneath your shoes as each step combines with the next to make a half-mile, then another, then another, until you’ve run 10 and you’re gasping and sweaty despite the brisk fall air. Your legs burn and your pulse quickens then slows and you stop, leaning down to rest your hands on your knees, settling into the almost tangibly delicious feeling of post-exercise exhaustion.
Before her mother had children, she ran marathons (and after, too). She ran before they made sneakers that weigh a mere 6 ounces. Before Strava and FitBits and wireless headphones. Didn’t matter! Wasn’t about the stuff.
They all ran because she did. But like so many good, hard things, it took some getting used to before she fell in love with it. But she did. She woke up at 5 AM to slog through sticky, humid mornings in August at the annual Georgetown 10K, her feet pounding the worn brick streets. She sweated through her hat and t-shirt in the sweltering July heat for the Liberty Day 6-miler in Hanover, Pennsylvania. She donned a bedazzled Santa sweater over her leggings for the Ugly Sweater run just outside Boston, her breath visible in the cold December air. She ran the Cooper River Bridge Run in Charleston, practically trampled the whole way by the tens of thousands of competitors. She gritted her way through the hilly Pier to Peak half marathon in San Diego, making it through only by virtue of the stunning and distracting views. She barely finished an ill-advised attempt, without training, at the Philadelphia half, the weather so unexpectedly cold that she started sobbing at mile 8 and had to dip her fingers in warm chicken broth at the finish line.
But the races aren’t what she loves, or even really likes. The adrenaline of a cheering crowd is appealing, but she prefers to run alone: no watch, no clock, no app. No music: just her own thoughts unspooling with every step. For many years of her life, she’s run more days than not.
Perhaps because of how largely it figures into her emotional well-being, she guards it closely. Sharing a run is an intimate act—what if she hates running with him? What if she doesn’t want to talk and he does? What if she can’t keep up because she’s been glued to her laptop since 10 AM trying to wrap up a particularly tricky grant proposal, a project requiring her to learn an incredible amount of technical detail around multi-sector climate resilience planning in coastal regions, and she only had enough time to eat a handful of Wheat Thins and half of pear slathered with peanut butter and sprinkled with cinnamon?
Her legs feel a little shaky—her body might respond to the first hill by just...giving up. The Wheat Thins lunch of champions might make her unable to do anything but get through it: no joy, no final sprint, just grit and exhaustion.
“So, we’ll do the full loop?” he asks, breaking into her thoughts. His voice brings her back to the present: the solid warmth of his body, his white socks visible above his running shoes. She wants to absorb—no, inhabit—every detail: what t-shirt he’s wearing, what brand of sneakers he likes, whether he stretches before or after, how his breathing sounds. Since meeting him, the word that keeps occurring to her is wonder. It’s wondrous that he exists—that he has existed all these years, out in the world doing the same ordinary things that she does.
The air outside is crisp and striated with a fall chill: cool in shady pockets of the trail, warm where the weak sunlight still filters down. Just an hour ago they were both seated at desks—in his office and the coffee shop she likes, respectively—and now they’re here, standing at a trailhead looking up the narrow path, the carpet of leaves stenciled with a lacy pattern of light that sifts down through the canopy of oaks and evergreens. It feels like a sort of church.
“Is this what worship is like?” she asks him as they start off. “What do you mean?” he says, and she tries to explain. Running is accessible in a way no other sport is. You just lace up your shoes and go. You don’t need equipment or companions or the proper conditions. You can run in the shimmering heat of a South African summer or in a snowstorm in Maine.
“It’s so...transformative but it’s everywhere, I guess is what I mean,” she says, taking a few extra beats to get the words out as they round a bend and come upon a section of trail so thickly blanketed with pine needles that the sound of their footsteps briefly disappears.
His exertion seems to intensify his very essence—a sheen of perspiration appears on his forehead and he rubs at it, wetting his hair slightly so it turns glossy with sweat. His gray T-shirt clings to his back. His entire body seems amplified: his smell, his thick chestnut hair, the muscles in his legs. Already commanding in stature, in motion he seems to grow even sturdier and broader and taller.
The run is one of the rare, exceptional sorts where everything clicks: your breath, your lungs, your legs. Each step feels light and good—not easy exactly, but satisfying, like grabbing hold of something firm.
For some reason she can’t remember, he’s telling her a story about his first roommate after college: a guy called Will Tellers. Will Tellers was quirkily talented (in college he built a robotic record flipper for old vinyl LPs) . A wiry cross-country runner who could sing pitch-perfect a capella songs and rewire a broken circuit breaker, he was also an exceptionally good cook.
“But we were, you know, broke twenty-somethings and he was sort of dabbling in vegetarianism out of necessity?” he explains, his chest heaving slightly as their strides match, then unpair, then match again. “Anyway, he taught me how to make lasagna from scratch, and we used to do these huge pans of cassoulet on Sunday nights and invite dozens of people over.”
Will Tellers, as the story continues, sounds hot. Despite the general vegetarianism, he could cook a steak that would put Peter Luger out of business (the secret: a three-day uncovered rest in the refrigerator and a splash of soy and orange juice in the pan) and would make huge bowls of ultra-crispy French fries whenever they watched football games (his method was to submerge thinly cut potatoes in a stock pot of cold oil, a bizarre technique she makes him swear he’ll try for her).
Will dated beautiful, tall, willowy women who all looked alike enough that he couldn’t entirely tell them apart, choosing instead to nod politely when he’d come across one leaning against their bathroom counter brushing her teeth in only black underwear and one of Will’s threadbare Middlebury ultimate frisbee t-shirts, or one languidly pouring coffee from their ancient French press in what he thought could be either yoga clothes or lingerie but genuinely wasn’t sure.
Will was the one who made his first two years okay. Will listened to Sigur Rós late at night while meditating and used to smoke weed on their fire escape while eating breakfast and talking to his parents back in Montana, which was one of his many odd habits, and yet Will was confident and funny and entirely at ease with himself.
“I already had friends—high school and college—and I was just falling into this whole world of finance, so I didn’t need people, but now I realize that I did need him, just to show me what it could be like to know yourself. Or be okay with getting to know yourself.”
She wants to ask so much more about Will Tellers. She wants to know exactly what the apartment looked like and if they hung posters on the wall or if Will was already into real art. She wants to know if he ate cereal for breakfast, and if so, what kind. She wants to know how he got to work and whether he ever felt lonely at night and if he had a crush on one of Will Tellers’ lissom, sylphlike girlfriends.
But they’re almost finished the run: Up ahead in the ever-darkening dusk, she can see the glint of the hood of his car. “Sprint?” she asks, and he groans but does it anyway, finishing just behind her.
Only one other car is parked in the lot now, and an older couple are just returning to it with two Irish setters at their side. One of the dogs bounds over to her, pressing its muddy nose against her legs. “Alden!” the man calls out firmly, but she smiles and shakes her head. “It’s okay! I love him already.” He looks up with soulful chocolate brown eyes as she rubs a hand in his silky red coat.
The couple make brief small talk about the weather and the trail before piling into their car, a dark green Suburu that looks like every single other car in this town—the back seat covered in a dog hair-dusted quilt, a pile of reusable grocery bags for the Co-op on the floor.
As their car disappears, he turns to her and runs a hand up the inside of her shirt. “Finally, finally, I can do this,” he says and kisses her, which makes her forget for a minute that she’s sweating and starting to get cold, that she’s covered in mud and probably some dog saliva, that she’s so hungry by this point she’s considering asking him to stop at the general store for a 50 cent piece of beef jerky.
This part is so easy. Stopping is harder—almost impossible, in fact, and as they pull apart she has a flash again of wishing she’d known all of his younger versions. Even if she had his entire present self, and all of his future ones, it wouldn’t—couldn’t—be enough: an insatiability that almost scares her sometimes.
Cheesy Swirled Buns
Makes one 9” x 13” pan
For the spinach artichoke filling
14 ounces (1 can) cooked artichoke hearts
2 cups loosely packed baby spinach
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 cup nutritional yeast
1/4 cup cashew butter
1/3 cup almond milk
3 tablespoons olive oil
juice of 1 lemon
For the buns
227g (1 cup) whole milk, slightly warmed
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
2 eggs, at room temperature
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
480g (4 cups) all-purpose flour
2 1/4 teaspoons (1 packet) instant or active dry yeast
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
225g (2 cups) grated sharp cheddar cheese
To make the filling: Pulse together all of the ingredients in a food processor or blender until fairly smooth—it’ll still be a bit rough in texture from the vegetables, but should be spreadable (think the consistency of hummus). If it’s too thick, add a bit more almond milk, a tablespoon at a time, until you reach the right consistency. Set aside while you make the dough.
To make the dough: In the bowl of a stand mixer, whisk together the milk, sugar, eggs, and butter until smooth.
Add the flour, yeast, and salt and mix on medium-high speed using the dough hook until the dough comes together smoothly—this will take about 5 minutes. The dough will be tacky and a bit sticky but shouldn’t feel wet-sticky.
Cover the bowl and let the dough rise at room temperature for about 90 minutes. You can also pop it in the refrigerator if you need more time—in that case, leave it there for anywhere from 3 to 12 hours. If you’ve refrigerated it, let it come to room temperature before proceeding to the next step.
After the first rise, transfer the dough to a lightly floured surface and roll it out to a large rectangle, about 12” x 18”.
Spread the spinach artichoke filling in a thin layer over the top of the dough, leaving a tiny bit of the edge bare. Sprinkle the cheese evenly over top.
Starting with the long edge closest to you, roll the dough up into a tight log and pinch the seam tightly to close it.
Using a piece of plain dental floss, slice the dough into 15 rounds (you can use a knife but I find dental floss to be much, much easier).
Line a 9” x 13” pan with parchment (or grease it with butter) and place the rounds into the pan.
Cover the pan loosely with plastic wrap and allow the buns to rest at room temperature for about 45 minutes.
When you’re almost ready to bake, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Bake the buns for 20 to 30 minutes, or until light golden on top and the cheese is bubbling.
Remove from the oven and wait until cool enough to handle before tearing into one.