While walking around the village of Medal, killing time before a foot race one Sunday morning at the end of June, I saw a small, dark brown horse galloping across a grassy enclosure about 30 yards in length. I stopped to watch. The horse thundered from one side to the other, wheeled, then tossed its head as if at a cautioning hand held up, and thundered back to the far corner. There it stopped, shook its head, and then did it all over again.
“Goodness gracious,” I called out to the animal. “What a lot of energy you have!”
My race, a 10K, was to start in an hour. I would be running not all out as this horse was but more doggedly. My feet would hurt by the end, and I would feel worn down and tired almost from the start. Still, I knew I would finish the race. That was what I had come to do. Sometimes in a foot race, the tiredness evaporates as I quit thinking about what I must do and how long it will take, and, instead, just do it. But I never feel strong and energetic, full of flash and fire, as that horse appeared.
“Goodbye horse,” I said, and continued down the narrow lane.
Medal sits on a bluff above the rocky coast near the western edge of Asturias. Old stone houses, slate roofs, clipped lawns with enormous hydrangeas, purple, pink, and blue. The day was overcast but warm and humid with hardly a breeze. I saw some dogs chained in the courtyards between outbuildings on a few small farmsteads. One dreary fellow staggered up from his cool cement and walked to the end of his chain. Not pulling, not protesting. Just reaching the limit and stopping there, like he already knew it by heart and thought, Why bother to test it? A student had told me about a law meant to keep dogs from living like that, stuck at the end of a chain. But the dogs hadn’t been told. And if you don’t look out for yourself, who will?
The lane I was following curved. Around the bend it dipped down and went into some eucalyptus trees growing on both sides of the hill. I knew this because I had run this race before. Beyond that, the road would end at a pile of rock with a steep set of stairs leading down to a pebble-strewn beach beside the ocean. No time to go that far now, I thought, but after the race, I limped down those steep steps to the beach. No warm sand, but plenty of perfectly smooth stones. I stooped and picked up a few. A couple looked just small and light enough for skipping.
The first one dropped straight in with barely a bounce. The second spun a little better, but not much, and the third the same.
Once released, of course, they all went to the same place.
I stood looking out at the gray water under a low sky. The horizon wasn’t the far edge—just the part we’re allowed to see. Beyond that, what? More of the same, for endless miles.
I still had ahead of me the climb back to the road and the walk through the village. The clipped lawns, the slate roofs, the hydrangeas leaning heavy over their fences in pale blues and pinks.
I turned away from the ocean and started back up the stairs, wondering if the horse would still be cantering in its small yard. Thirty yards might be as good as a racetrack, if you keep your hooves flying and your turns sharp. A short chain will keep you grounded, if your paws are steady. And aching feet aren’t so bad, if your expectations are low. Besides, there’s always the ocean.
