In my final race of the summer season, the last of the week’s cloud cover hung overhead as the antsy crowd of runners counted down the last ten seconds with the announcer and the half marathon began. More than five inches of rain had fallen in the preceding seven days, but the gray ceiling above held off on the event, and I found myself cruising at a pace I’d yet to touch all season. By the time three miles remained, I knew a personal best was possible based on the estimated pace from my watch, and as I crossed the finish line at just a hair over 100 minutes. With finisher medal in hand, I knew I had topped my previous record just from the time on the clock, even before I had my computerized chip time.

Where the effort came from, I don’t know. It could have been the ideal weather: cool, calm, and cloudy. It may have been the beloved “flow state” that real athletes and physiological experts describe in lengthy articles in running blogs and sports magazines. Perhaps it was the extra few forkfuls of noodles from the night before that boosted my carb supply for the run. As I made the drive home, under the breaking skies and the first few rays of sun that signaled an outdoor opportunity in the afternoon as well, I chalked it up to being a combination of all those things and others and was happy to have experienced it.

After a shower and breakfast, I found myself with a stretch of open hours and a set of legs that were surprisingly strong despite the extra effort they put in to break my personal best by more than a minute according to the internet readout that was sent to my inbox after the event. Changing into field pants, it took little convincing for my lab to get in the truck, and we headed out to some grouse acres west of the river. While numbers are down and crops remain up, the odds of seeing a few sharpies or even getting a shot at one are limited, but as I’ve found as I get older — and apparently faster — the wanderings in the field are what count more, and the mere fact I’m able to tackle the ups and downs that the terrain lays out there from season-to-season is my reward on many occasions.

If it was three weeks later, it would have been a hunt to rival the morning’s race. Young pheasants were everywhere in the public-access acres as we wound our way through the low, field-side cover and up into the grassier hills of the property where I hoped the grouse would be in an abundance to match. Instead, we were greeted by meadowhawk dragonflies, sulphur butterflies and a couple remaining monarchs before a few sets of rooster-and-hen pairs at least provided my lab with some running time of his own before the birds flushed over the field of still-green sunflowers behind us or off the last high point of the rolling hills above the valley.

We closed out the two-mile hike in the warmth of late afternoon and on the last hill before we descended I emptied the final gulps in my field bottle for my lab to drink, and paused to look around. Only wisps of white streaked the blue sky for the penultimate day of summer, and on the cusp of autumn, and our descent back to the truck, I felt a rush of endorphins as if my runner’s high from the morning had never left. With open acres, improving conditions, a preview of the pheasant population, and the momentary feeling of invincibility standing atop the rise, in that moment I felt more than ready to take on yet another autumn … in our outdoors.