I explore the grooves of the rock with my right thumb and they become comfortingly familiar. The curves conform to shapes and creases of my cupped fingers perfectly; this rock was made for me. The perfect size too: portable enough that it doesn’t weigh me down as I run, but massive enough to intimidate any territorial dog I may encounter.

Like volcano insurance, I hope to never need it. In the towns and cities I’m used to, I don’t usually even bother. I know the roads and trails in Quito and Pisaq and Cusco as well as those in Boston and Concord and Somerville. Still, here – on unfamiliar roads in an unfamiliar mountain town, it’s more like having flood insurance in New Orleans – might actually pay off.

As I head up and north away from the main drag – the three or four blocks which comprise bustling, downtown Huaraz, Perú – my breathing becomes heavier. 10,000 feet above sea level is nothing to sneeze at and the climb makes my heart thunder, my breath quick and rapid.

It’s my first run since I left for a summer in Perú after Boston’s Run to Remember Half Marathon, some two and a half weeks earlier. Normally, the idea of missing a day’s training seems cataclysmic. But once a year, I take a deep breath, hang up my disgusting shoes stained with the sweat of five-thousand miles covered on foot, and exhale. For about three weeks.

For those three weeks, I force myself out of the habits which I’ve worked so hard to ingrain. I no longer rise and instinctively slip into shorts and training shoes. I stop thinking about the next big workout, stop checking the weather ten days out from the next big race.

Instead, I try to live like a normal human being – without pounding my body to its limits and desperately hoping that it can repair itself in time for the next bout. If I want to stay out late, I do. If I want an ice cream sundae, I eat one. Maybe two.

But no matter how hard I try to relax, to be normal, after two weeks – like clockwork – it comes back. That itching to get moving. That hollowness screaming out that something – something big – is missing from my carefree days. I never really last three weeks. Like star-crossed lovers (or a jaded drug addict, depending on how you choose your metaphors), I can’t wait any longer and sometime in that third week, I sneak out for just one easy run. Just to see how I feel. Just to be social. Just because it’s such a damned beautiful day and I can’t stand the thought of not being out there for one more second.

And now, I find myself on one of those runs. Driven by my insatiable need for movement, I run from my hostel on the edge of the town up through the center and towards the north. I get a lot of chuckles and whistles as the locals get a kick out of seeing a gringo running around in short-shorts for no apparent reason. But I don’t mind the laughs; it´s nice to provide entertainment for la gente. From the crowded plaza, I run up towards the other edge of the city, crossing a major thoroughfare where the pavement ends and I’m running up a rocky, dirt road.

The modern concrete buildings and store-fronts with posters depicting Northface fleeces (possibly real) and 20,000 ft. mountains (definitely real) have disappeared. The buildings are made of mud and clay, topped by corrugated tin shingles with only some heavy rocks or the occasional piece of truck-tire to protect them from being torn off by the ruthless Andean winds. I run for a mile or so up into the hills, carefully eyeing the dogs as I run by. Most look as tired and wind-beaten as the houses they guard, but I know some may have the instinct and training to quickly change gears and become a problem for a solitary runner. I bend down and scoop up my rock without breaking stride.

The dirt road becomes a trail which appears to just peter out after a few minute; its blazers seemingly bored and having moved onto another project. I look for a continuation, another trail or road, but all I see around me is harsh mountain wilderness. I take a second to pause and look back down from whence I’ve come. Like a petri dish, the view is dominated by the dense town center and then expands out haphazardly up the mountains on either side.

I catch my breath and retrace my steps down the hill and come back to the Panamericana – the main highway which cuts through the town and continues on to Alaska to the north and Patagonia to the south. Carefully navigating through the gauntlet of 18-wheelers and tour-buses, I jump forward one-hundred years and reenter modern civilization. The roads are paved; stoplights and electric wires grace the sidewalks. The houses have glass windows and satellite TV dishes.

From here, it’s all downhill. I jog through the main square, passing salesmen heckling tourists to buy fake Oaklies and “Jhon’s Pizza Hous” until finally I descend a set of steps and make my way through the narrow alley leading back to my hostel.

It’s been about fifty minutes since I left and I have no idea how fast I’ve been running. It doesn’t matter though; not today at least. This isn’t training after all. I’m just enjoying the day.

No. I know what today means. It’s the first run of the season and there’s no going back now. But boy am I glad to be moving.