I'm flying. Not continuously, but my feet pick up and touch down softly, fleetingly, and shoot me forward again, leaving me a few glorious moments of weightlessness. I would say I'm pounding down the trail, but that's not it: I'm flying down it, hardly aware that I'm hitting the ground.
Occasionally I see hikers, gingerly sidestepping the boot-sucking mud and swampy, trail-wide puddles. I fly by them, too, caressing the ground with my toes, feet grazing exactly the right places, propelling me onward without breaking stride.
Time exists in a totally different dimension. In the span of only a few minutes, I've run forever; two hours, however, is over in an instant. All that exists is the forest and my body. My muscles flow effortlessly, my breath matches my footfalls, I fly through the mist and between the trees, bathed by occasional rainfall. My lungs fill with clean, crystal air and I keep running, running, running, barely confined to the earth.
I am so, so glad to be alive.