“Into the distance, a ribbon of black. Stretched to the point of no turning back. A flight of fancy on a windswept field, standing alone, my senses reel. Fatal attraction holding me fast, how can I escape it’s irresistible grasp. How can I keep my eyes from the circling sky, tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I.”
Pink Floyd, Learning To Fly
Why do those of us that run, run? As one gets older it doesn’t get any easier to drag your tired arse out of bed, and pound the pavement for an hour. Honestly, it would be much easier to lie on the couch, grab a beer, and watch television
Kick up your feet, and lose yourself for a few hours in the life of a stranger, familiar only through team statistics and other minutae you have absorbed like a sponge.
Though as far as I am concerned, few things as pure, as engaging, as a good run. When you’re running, and you get in your groove, nothing can touch you. The aches and pains don’t go away, but they recede to a very small place in the back of your mind.
Things that prior to the run perplexed and irritated, now seem manageable and barely worth the worry and stress that you put into them in the first place.
Then it’s all instinct. You can’t over-think a run (and if you have somehow managed to do so, stop it). The part of your mind that over-analyzes everything takes a much needed rest, as muscle-memory engages.
And for a little while, you’re flying. Scenery blurs as you pass, and you barely feel your feet strike the ground anymore.
Running isn’t easy, yet in essence it’s so sublimely simple; though perhaps it shouldn’t be because you run the risk of forgetting every foot-fall is a gift.
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