Strange things happened on my run last night. The first was that I went for a run at all. I had pushed it off through the day and, after having too big of a meal of steak, sweet potato fries, and green beans, reluctantly headed out for a short one. Down the street, I felt as pukey and bloated as you would expect. The desire to stop was pretty powerful.
A few weeks back I figured out my three steps for running:
- Get out the door
- Run
- Don't stop
I put all three to work last night as I burped and farted through the first mile and a half. On top of that, my ankle was still not right, but there I was taking another step and another. I climbed Skytop and kept going. I went long. Seven miles later I was back home but not wanting to stop.
(I did stop, however, because my daughters would soon be in bed and I need those kisses goodnight. As reasons to stop running go, that's my best one.)
Running ceased to be work last night. I still sweat and at times I was gasping for air, but it wasn't work in the way that I think most people consider running seven miles would be. It wasn't unpleasant. It wasn't exactly pleasant either. It just was what it was.
And now, half a day later, I'm itching to get back out there and run some more. Like I said, it's all very strange.
I'm not a marathon runner. I'm certainly not an ultra-runner. But lately I've been feeling as though I should append to each those statements the word "yet." Last night, running past the discomfort of an over-filled belly, I found that my body was ready to go on and on. Finding that out wasn't exactly a revelation so much as a reminder of who I can be and how much choice I have in the matter.
I've been working lately to make time for some things. I want to focus on writing poetry writing and I want to move my body more. I want to read novels and books of poetry. I want to be with my family and also be by myself. In order to accommodate these things, other things have had to go. Of late, that has meant that I haven't been writing these essays every day. I miss them so I'll make time for them again. I don't have much room for television and I don't miss it. It's the same with the computer. Half an hour a day (other than writing) is more than enough. How much good can my twelfth check of Facebook updates be?
As usual (and as I have written about here before) it's a process of balancing, of being aware. The mileage that I run doesn't matter, but the feeling of it is everything. Writing too. I have written some good essays and some real stinkers, but the feeling of writing (rather than the feeling of having written) is what matters. As I'm writing this, I feel good just pushing my fingers across the keyboard. It's a rhythm of my life very similar to the sound of my bare feet running on the pavement.
Last thing about this: I'm re-reading Christopher McDougall's Born to Run, a book I lent to a friend and told him to mark up. Like me, he keeps seeing the connections between running and writing. And I keep embracing the strangeness of both. Enjoying the editing of a piece for publication and savoring every step of the seventh mile of that run. Step by step, word by word, there is nothing better than to run and write on.
Run on. Write on. Be. :)
ReplyDeleteBrian,
ReplyDeleteYears ago, I was walking out to the turnaround point of the Philadelphia marathon as the race's elite runners were returning to finish in the center of the city. I was below them on a divided roadway. I was struck by how little noise their feet made, hardly touching the pavement before lifting off again. Used to immersion in the labored steps off plodding runners, I've yet (~20 years) to get over the sense of how natural running was to those seeming to float just above the road. Your writing rekindles this morning that sense of a natural rhythm those runners demonstrated years ago.
Thank you,
Jerry