July 25, 2015
I don't call myself a runner, but I run.
I don't read articles about running or get my feet analyzed for the perfect shoe. I don't load up on carbs before a race or own a watch that times me to the nearest fraction of a second. I don't run with other people, typically, and when I do it feels weird. Sometimes my legs feel like lead and my lungs feel quite pop-able. But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel like I'm part deer: my legs are an engine almost disconnected from the rest of my body, and it's effortless. In those rare moments, I feel free.
Such was my jaunt this morning.
Let me go back: when I was a child, I would only run if chased. I tried to play basketball and I was awful. No sport came easily or even with a vast amount of effort. So, aside from manual labor, physical exertion wasn't on Nance's menu. My physique certainly reflected my standard choice of sit versus move.
When I got married, Darin and I got each other bikes. I don't remember what precipitated this sudden leap toward fitness, but it was a good purchase. A year in, we rode the MS 150, a 2-day, 150 mile bike tour. The first day was a delight, with warmth and sun. Day two was rainy and cold and I cut a hole in a trash sack because genius here didn't pack rain gear. "150" is a lie I tell you! A lie! At mile 150 my ass and I were both ready to pitch my bike off a cliff...but alas, there were 17 miles left to pedal. I finished that sucker, and I found myself altered forever (my ass recovered and so did I, not to worry).
For the first time in my life, I was in shape. I didn't want to lose the momentum I had gained during all that training and riding, so I started to run. Nothing big, 2-3 miles at a time. Enough to keep from returning to my childhood Pillsbury Doughboy status. I ran up to the month prior to having Grace and Drew each. I was even one of those annoying moms with the jogging stroller. Drew would listen to tunes and sing the SpongeBob SquarePants theme song at the top of his voice as I trolled around. I'm afraid the neighborhood thought he was special for the first two years of his life.
It wasn't until I randomly entered a race that some of my pals were in that I realized a) passing people was super fun and b) I didn't suck. It was the first physical activity I had ever done with any success, it kept my head clear and my backside less droopy than it otherwise might be. Win win win.
All this not to portray myself as some sort of fitness machine, for that is far from the case. But the run is a significant part of my life. I'm grateful for finding it.
This morning I woke before the sun after a fitful sleep. I was bothered, my body was telling me, but my mind couldn't sort it out. That happens.
After ambling around the house, I knew what I had to do.
As I started to run down the hill from home, something felt different. I felt like I was going slower but lighter. It's interesting to me how often my run improves when my mind is clouded or I'm angry or sad. It's as if a switch is flipped and the body says "screw you, head or heart! All systems are go here." I can't count the times I have run with tears streaming, my legs pumping away in spite of whatever heartbreak or frustration has seized upon me. And yes, people look at me like I've escaped from the mental ward. I don't care.
I felt slower, but my handy dandy phone tracker reported a faster pace than usual. And it continued to quicken. It just felt so damned good.
I walked for a bit as I neared home, but decided to sprint on straightaways. I was flying in spurts. And I laughed out loud. I felt like hammered poo an hour prior, but I ran it off. Sometimes, just sometimes, that happens.
I don't call myself a runner, but I run. And I'm grateful.
Biking today at sunset. Same bike that wore me out for 167 miles 17 years ago. Quite the pair.
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