A Love Letter To Running

In my mind, I am always mid-stride – muscles straining, driving forward, flying – an instant before victory, but never quite reaching the goal. Some people like the finish; I like the moment before, where the sweat is thick and your lungs burn. That’s where the magic is.

I have a semi-Romantic notion about running. I focus on the rawness, the pain and pleasure in tandem. There is a sense of joy there, but it is not the light and floating kind. Instead, the joy is rough and dirty with hard work. It has more similarity to a flower forcing its way though a crack in the sidewalk than to a sunny meadow. There is nothing restful here.

In my mind, there is no connection to a time or a place. I am both alone, running miles on a back road, while simultaneously in the middle of a pack breaking down the homestretch. The feelings are the same. There is pride in how far I have come mixing with a fear of how far I still have to go. The only thought that is given space is the decision to move forward. There is no consideration of how or why, only the knowledge that it will be done.

Then, in the next breath, the moment is gone. The stride is over, the tape broken, and the world comes back into focus. Success or failure has now been decided, when just a moment before it was up for grabs. That is where the magic comes from – the not knowing. Once it is known, I am just left with the feeling that I must seek out that moment again.

And again.

And again.