The small stretch of road I've been running on for the last five years is ideal in lots of ways. It's not too flat, so it rarely gets boring. The hills are abrupt and brief and look much worse than they feel—good for bragging rights without breaking you in half. There are curves that draw you around each corner but none so sharp that they're dangerous. If you hit it right, you seldom see cars, and the ones that do pass are in no hurry and know where they're going—you never have to point and nod and shout through a crack in the window about the large tree to the left of the fence row past the old church, no, the other old church, no, the one past that. There is barking just before mile one (two huskies), at the one-and-a-half (collie/shepherd mix), at two (pair of runty brown snorters), but you never hear gnashing teeth, you never get chased down. The route is sunny in winter, shady in summer, warm and cool when a run needs it most. A rushing creek alternately nudges the shoulder and disappears into the woods. There are deer and turkeys and ducks and geese and bears and foxes and turtles and herons. Once there was a porcupine. Once a bald eagle.

The roads surrounding this one are steep, narrow, and curvy. They are not runable. So the nicest thing about the road I run on is that it's long enough. There is no way an average person could ever use it up. Because I am an average runner (at best) who is above average in determination alone, I've never worried that I'd hit the terrarium glass. I might go faster and I might go longer, but no matter how much I improved, I'd never run out of road.

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http://www.runnersworld.com/runners-stories/learning-run-farther-seemed-possible