Mike just said "Your post from yesterday was kind of gross," so I write this today in the hopes that a change in tone and topic will redeem me in the eyes of those whose opinion of me dropped considerably after yesterday's Flashback Friday confession.On to the post:
Today I got up, put on my spandex pants, tied my laces and walked outside and took a big, deep breath of 27 degree air. I drove to the river, donned my headphones, and started to run.
I run along the James River, beneath oak trees that are canopies of shade in the summer and intricate webs in the winter. I run beside a fraternity of other runners and joggers of all ages and shapes, each of whom I wave to and who nod or say "hello" in return.
This morning I watched a white and grey speckled owl, perched on a branch three stories high, swivel his head so he could see his next meal.
This morning I watched two geese push off of a rock and glide over the water, only inches apart. Each wing moved up, down, up, down in a rhythm so perfectly aligned, so aware of the other's movement, so perfectly close and in sync with its mate, that I thought I could cry.
This morning I felt my muscles burn, and I felt my feet pound, and I felt my nose tingle in the cold and I felt alive and strong and healthy.
And I wondered why I ever stopped doing this.
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Long ago, in a land called Middle School -- or hell, ya know, whatever -- I was picked last for dogeball. And kickball. And all sports beginning or ending in "ball."
I was a sideline-sitting, nose-picking, size-extra-large-wearing, schlubby kid who no one wanted on their team.
With good reason. Let me illuminate:
I was, like, 5'10'' at age 12, so my parents signed me up for basketball. Logical. The coach was initially enthusiastic about my membership. He too saw the obvious: I was taller than every other kid on the court. By like, six, eight inches. His plan was to stand me under the basket, pass me the ball, and watch as I place the ball in the basket without even lifting my heel from the gym floor.
Unfortunately that was not what was to transpire. When passed the ball, I:
1.) Ducked and covered.
2.) Received and froze.
3.) Cried and passed to someone else.
4.) Took three steps without dribbling.
But never, ever did I successfully put the ball in the basket. I played basketball for three years, but I never scored a single point.
Additionally, I was a second quarter girl. Always. I mean, unless the flu was going around and we were down, like, five players, I only played the second quarter. You know what that means? You know what the second quarter is?
In middle school, all the coaches put their nose-picking, extra-large-shirt-wearing, schlubs in during the second quarter. We would all bumble around and trip over each other and pick the wedgies we received running down court and not score a single point. I was so slow to run back to the other side of the court after a rebound, that sometimes I would just not bother. The other team would just pass to the girl I was supposed to be covering, score, and then -- yay! -- everyone starts heading back to me!
The refs hardly ever blew the whistle unless someone's shoe came untied, and none of us had a clue why we only EVER played during the second quarter, but this way the coaches could say we played (which I believe was required in middle school intramural athletics) without jeopardizing the win.
Sad, right? But it was totally fair, because while all the other girls actually practiced, and tried to be physically fit athletes, I preferred to sip a juice box, kick back on the sidelines, and dream about the MacDonald's chicken McNuggets I planned to devour after the game.
Frankly, I pretty much stayed that way through college. I never played in any of the intramural athletics organized by the inter-Greek council. I never utilized my access to a free, fully equipped gym. I did, however, drive to class one block away toward the end of my tenure at Radford.
It wasn't until I moved to New Hampshire that I started to consider exercise. I went to the mall one day and the sizes found in typical mall stores no longer fit me. I cried, I left, and I joined Curves.
Have you been to a Curves? Oh, dear jesus, you need to go. My friend (and fellow blogger) Colleen and I joined Curves, and we were unilaterally hated by all the other Curves-goers. Why? Because we were a solid 45 pounds lighter and 25 years younger than every one of them. Our perky asses hopped off those machines and leaped onto the jogging squares! We smiled and and giggled while they huffed and puffed -- and got off a circuit early. They gave us the stink eye, and we tried not to look annoyed when we waiting 30 seconds for one of them to extricate herself from the leg-lift machine.
But I lost a bunch of weight, and I got fit.
I graduated from Curves, and, due to my meager finances, started running. Because its free. At first I couldn't run even a quarter of a mile. And let's just go ahead and put "run" in quotation marks, because it was more like some strange epileptic gallop, replete with awkward arm-flailing and loud, alarming hacking.
And I was "running" around Boston, mind you, so as I'm "running", people are crossing to the other side of the street and pulling their children closer.
Whatever. We all start somewhere.
More than one person has said to me: "Yeah, I don't know how you do that. I don't run."
What the hell do you mean "You don't run?" You run. Barring something unfortunate that has rendered you physically unable to run -- you can run. We were all pre-programmed to run. I concede that the original impetus for running was probably towards a meal or to avoid becoming one for something larger than you, but the principal still applies: All humans are created to run.
You can run, you just don't want to. Which is fine, but call it what it is.
Furthermore, give it a try. I guarantee if you get outside on a beautiful day, and jog for just a few minutes, you'll want to stay out there. You'll want to do it again tomorrow.
Because that Runner's High stuff? That shit's for real, yo. I forget about how one run makes me want to run tomorrow and the next day...
But I did have some trouble running at first. I kept getting anxious. I would run, and I would start thinking. I would think about how slow I am running, or how stupid I look running, or how fast other people are running; how I wish I could run that fast; I used to run that fast; now I can hardly run a mile; I used to run miles and miles; that guy can run miles and miles; I'm never going to run like that again --
ENOUGH. God. My own monologue just stressed me out. Jeez. Isn't that nuts? I did that. To myself. During a run. And then I would feel the anxiety rise in my chest, it would choke my breathing, stifle my energy, zap my strength, and then: run over. Everything would be wasted on useless worrying.
It occurred to me recently that I was doing the very same thing to my entire life. I was worrying it away. I was planning and pitying and stressing, but I was not living at all.
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Running is so very much about being in the present.
It is not about how far I will run. It is not about how fast I will run. It is certainly not about how far or fast anyone else will run.
It is about how good it feels while I am running. While I am taking this step. And this step. It doesn't matter what the next step feels like.
Because right now this one feels perfect. Right now I am running.
