On Tuesday, as I left for my afternoon run, I was in a bad mood. In a distinct break from the normal South American “dry season” weather, the skies had clouded over, blackened, and opened up, dumping a torrent of rain on the old narrow streets of Quito. Grumbling, accustomed to the perfect equatorial weather, I dug out my raincoat from the bottom of my backpack and tromped out the door.

A few blocks later, I was jolted up by a giant thunderclap which had snuck up behind me, in the south of the city. I stopped and took shelter in a doorway for a minute, debating whether I should go on or just head back to the comfort and safety of inside. (Aside – for those who don’t know – I hate and am horribly afraid of thunderstorms). I decided that it looked clearer to the north where I was headed and kept on.

By the time I got through La Alameda and El Ejido and was making my way down the smoggy, congested Avenido Amazonas, the rain had stopped and my mood had shifted. My legs felt good for the first time since my 10k race/21 mile long-run weekend combo. I was enjoying myself.

I arrived at La Carolina – the big, downtown park where I do the majority of my running – and headed to the giant 800m track, nestled in the center and surrounded by eucalyptus trees. The plan was to do a few strides – short, progressive sprints – just to get my legs moving a bit quicker than the few easy runs I’d done in the last few days.

It was already getting dark as I started and there was only one other person left on the giant oval. He looked fast. And he had a coach with a stop-watch. I watched him run a few 300m repeats out of the corner of my eye and, as we both finished our respective workouts at the same time, I decided to jog a lap with him. It turned out he was only about 16 years old, a 400m runner. I had hoped he would be one of the 20-something elites that I’ve been racing against on the roads, but it was still nice to talk to another runner.

As I was getting ready to go, the man who appeared to be his coach – a small, bird-like man with the wizened and prematurely-creased face that can only come from years of distance running – called me over. He explained he was the coach of a group of athletes, some youngsters like Vladimir, who I had just met, and some older university guys and pros. He asked about the times I’d run and seemed mildly impressed. After a few minutes, he asked if I’d be interested in coming to their practice on Thursday morning.

Running back to the hostel, I was overwhelmed by a sudden realization. With that one chance encounter, a giant missing puzzle piece was filled in – a piece that I didn’t even necessarily know was missing. I had a chance at a network, a social life, a training group. I had a connection to real Quiteños, a permanent link to the city and the country. I felt that this huge part of my life – in terms of both time and energy – no longer felt like a struggle of Tyler against Quito, like I was no longer running in spite of living in Quito or Ecuador or South America, but that I was running with the help and support of Quito and Ecuador and South America.

And I still can’t quite put it into words. I don’t know why that encounter – and follow-up, as I did go to their practice on Thursday morning – left me feeling the way I felt. I won’t necessarily say that I’ve planted any roots yet, but the seeds are being sprinkled.

Living in Quito is beginning to feel more just like living my life. Less like travel. And maybe that’s the key. Having a group, practices, commitments, maybe that’s how I know I’m really starting to settle down.

Maybe, my life is becoming too routine. Maybe, I need to move on, mix things up. Or maybe, it’s okay to settle down. Maybe, I’ll get a dog.