I dread running.
On the days leading up, I feel intimidated. As the day nears, excuses creep in, and by the morning, I’m ready to execute them, almost not go at all.
But when I do run, the dread melts into the never-ending distance. Negative thoughts shred beneath my feet as I trample through the town.
Excuses turn laughable as I digest the first few miles, watching the distance slip into the background. Roads stretch further than I can see. Distance consumes.
I start my watch, ready to embark on an hourless journey that somehow feels like minutes when it ends. The only true time with yourself—undistracted, opportunistic, yours.
Running is an art created by your mind but driven by your feet.
Distance running is no small feat. Pain torments your feet, triggering fight or flight as each step presses deep into the pavement, springing you toward the next mile marker.
The world looks different from a runner’s POV. Everything moves in slow motion while the figure in your mind zips by every building, pedestrian, car.
Reality takes a back seat when running knocks.
Every 45 minutes, like clockwork: 20 grams of carbs. Gu’s are a classic. Slurp it down like dessert, chase it with water. Energy inserted. Miles to be taken down.
A Runner’s High is real. A euphoric pulse when the world stops, your heart falls silent, in tune with your moving body, keeping melody like a jazz band.
Time loops and stretches, dismantled, surgically placed into my skull.
Running is irreplaceable, unexplainable, evocative—a fogless route to clarity.
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