IStock Photo 2265622 © Rockfinder

I am woken by the early morning sunlight lancing through the holes in my tent. The golden rays are accented, like laser beams, by the ever-present dust particles suspended in the air. I scratch my shaved head and rub sleep from my eyes. What a bizarre dream. Something about my high school ex-girlfriend’s car and a game show. I sit up and look around the small partition I have built for myself with scrap lumber and plywood. My room is a mess. Half-empty water bottles, boots, magazines, books, and gear are strewn in a chaotic mess. My mother would not approve.

I debate getting up and attempting to be productive or lying back down on my cot and sleeping for a few more hours. I stroke the thin mustache I have grown, more for comic relief than anything, and mull over my options. I don't have any missions today, so I think I am going to utilize the time by doing nothing. Then again, doing nothing ends in boredom. Boredom turns to anxiety, anxiety turns to fear, fear leads to hate, hate leads to suffering. Just like Master Yoda said. I guess I will go for a run. I need to make sure I stay in shape anyway, if I have any intention of attracting a nice girl when I return to the States. Oh yeah, and it may save my life. I sift around the mess on the floor and pull on a pair of running shoes and a t-shirt. I pick up a brisk trot and head over to the Tactical Operations Command (TOC).

I sneak in the back door of the TOC and am faced with a wall of blackness. The lights are not on in the small storage room in the rear of the tent and my eyes can hardly adjust from the brilliant daylight outside. I know where my target is though, and I feel my way over to the corner. Ah, yes, the small refrigerator with deliciously cold bottles of water. I snatch one and wheel about with my prize, sneaking quickly out the back where I entered. If the commander were to see me, he would want to have a sit down chat about tactics or mission planning. Great stuff, but right now my mission was two laps around this small Forward Operating Base (FOB).

I crack the water bottle open to find the water inside is completely frozen solid. I bang the water bottle on some rocks hoping the ice has entombed some liquid inside. No such luck. I start jogging to the perimeter of the FOB and drop the water bottle at the base of the large Hesco baskets that make the outside wall, figuring I will use it as my start/end point.

Hesco baskets were an invention that came about some time during the early days of Iraq, I think, and they are a staple of the war effort. They are wire mesh baskets of various sizes ranging from 1' by 1' by 1' cube to 12' by 12' by 12'. Strung together they can be filled with dirt or gravel and stacked to make large blast walls of any shape and size desired. Best of all they can be erected quickly using either a bucket loader or a team of privates armed with shovels and in need of attitude adjustment training. They ring military bases worldwide and whoever invented them is probably sipping margaritas on a private jet.

Shit. I forgot my iPod. Oh well, I still have my own thoughts to keep me company.

I start my jog, today going counterclockwise around the FOB. There is a small ring of packed dirt that handrails the Hesco wall. The rest of the FOB is covered in large pieces of crushed stone that will twist your ankle. I run past the entry control point, a break in the wall where patrols enter and leave the FOB. Bored gate guards look at me with dull expressions. Their shifts are long and they have little to keep them occupied in the baking sun.

Ten minutes into my run and my lungs are already burning. This high altitude air is still taking some getting used to. For some reason I am daydreaming about the runs I used to take from my old apartment on the corner of Mass Ave. and Tremont Street. I would head down Mass Ave to the Charles and swing a right and head east toward downtown. Maybe stop in to see my (ex) girlfriend at her job, all smiling and sweaty. See police on horses and the dome of MIT and people crashing sailboats into each other on the river. I would return to my apartment, drink a beer on the roof and watch the sunset over the skyline. Listen to bums argue in the back alley. Watch the guy who lives across from me bring his third girl of the week home. Watch an old lesbian couple watering tomatoes in their window boxes.

I round another corner and pass my water bottle on my first lap. There are two massive ants fighting over a dead moth on the ground. Their abdomens look like coffee beans with spindly legs skittering through the moon dust. God I miss good coffee. The coffee here isn't bad, but I can almost taste the rich roast and sweet caramel as the perfumes of an overpriced Starbucks macchiato fill my nose. My mind drifts from coffee to food, to sports... I hope the Yankees don't win again, my Platoon Sergeant is a Yankees fan and listening to him gloat thus far in the deployment has been torture. I need to remember to e-mail my Mom and Dad. I bought them a webcam for Christmas so we could use Skype, but my Internet is far too slow to be of use.

As these rambling thoughts pop in and out of my conscious mind I can feel my body growing more and more tired. Just... a... little... further... I can see the water bottle now. I dig deep and stretch my stride, kicking my heels as high as I can get them.

I reach the finish point. The ice has melted somewhat. I open the bottle and drink deeply, still breathing hard. I can feel the frigid cold moving down my throat and into my stomach and spreading through my core. I always find I have the most positive outlook on my time in Afghanistan when I have just finished a good hard run. I have some conviction that I am going to look back on this experience and have a sense of gratitude that I spent my formative years as a part of a world-shaping event. I could be gorging on Hot Pockets and playing video games in my parents’ basement. I could be hiking the Long Trail (something I want to do before I hit age 30). I could be doing a lot of things. But right now it is breakfast time, and I want a cup of instant coffee.

ODDS FACT: The odds a person will run or jog for fitness at least 50 days a year are 1 in 11.39.

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