Went for a slow run this morning. Barefoot. As I often run. I got thinking of another barefoot runner in town. An acquaintance. Someone I'd like to know better. A much faster runner. But they hate to run and so don't run much.

This was two miles into a run I was loving. Felt like I could have run ten miles. Slowly. I felt joyous. Bare feet padding pavement. Moving steadily down the road.

Later in the run, another runner came off Peck Hill onto Tecumseh and passed me. They asked how long I'd run barefoot. Almost fifteen years. They said they only do it on grass fields. Everyone says that. I joked that I do it because I'm a broken down old man. They laughed and ran ahead. Steadily pulling away. Another faster runner.

Again I imagined being faster. Thinking it would make the run better. I envisioned keeping up with that faster runner. Going faster than the other barefoot guy. Doing a 5K in fewer than twenty-five minutes. Faster is better. Common sense on which I get stuck.

Even when I'm in the midst of a perfect run. When I feel completely happy. Unlike the faster guy who hates every step. Faster is better? Maybe better is better. Speed might have nothing to do with it. If walking feels good, that's fast enough. If I'm happy crawling, that's fast enough.

Boom. Insight. Enlightenment. I kept running down Tecumseh, hung a right on Old Lyme, and left onto Standish. Each step joyous. Complete. Better.

An hour ago, I got thinking about how to crack that twenty-five minute 5K.

Enlightenment, it turns out, can be fleeting.