Run, Run, Run Fest

I despise being cold.  The only thing worse is being hungry and cold.  Fortunately, I am always with food—almonds in the purse, dark chocolate hidden in obscure pockets, pork tenderloin slices tucked away.  So, I’ve found compensatory strategies for this perseverative hunger beast.  That still leaves me cold, and it is freakin’ December.  The only, only solitary time I embrace the Central Texas Tundra is when I am running.  This act brings me much joy.  One could assume that since I love running, I must do it all of the time. This is an erroneous assumption.  On average, I run once a week.

This running thing happened by accident in the 7^th grade.  I did not make the basketball team (only volleyball member who did not make the b-ball team—damn being 5’1” and uncoordinated with large, orange balls), was passed over for team manager (low-blow) and was stuck in the off-season.  Coach Hutchinson would blow the whistle, and a mass of girls in the midst of puberty would awkwardly start moving in some type of forward trajectory.  It was not pretty.  We were required to run for the entire athletics’ period through the streets of Wylie’s finest suburbia.  Now, as an academic, overachieving zealot, I kept running because I always did as I was told.  Girls took shortcuts.  Rumor had it (cue Adele) a few would just run home for part of the time, pat some cold water on their faces and got back to school when it was time to get dressed.  How timely and efficient of them.  This is where my tumultuous love-lust affair with running started.  It was 1992, and I was 12 years old.  Oh, how I ran. 

I love the way the soles of my shoes grip the pavement, the dirt, the grass, the track.  I love the juxtaposition of my cold face with my warmed-up torso and limbs.  I am in love with the mental-peace I always find.  This is my favorite part, and I get drunk from it.  When I think about all of my former residences, I think about my paths.  I ran around the Wylie Butane Mobile Home Park as a teen.  It was home, and mom did not want me to go far.  UT did not feel like home until I went on a run.  My first new friend on the 40 acres was Clark Field.  She  was there for me when I needed a break from studying, she was there for me when I broke off a six-year relationship, she was there for me when Kim called about mom's brain tumor.  Madison brought me some of my favorite runs. Lake Mendota pushed me to take longer, faster strides as my throat burned from the sharp , cold-ass air.  The hill on Hart Lane in North Austin challenged my quads and brings fond memories of my first home with Jeremy.  Now, my runs take place long after the sun slumbers.  The girls are in bed, and it’s my time.  I put on my reflector vest and knee brace.  I turn on my music.  Long-gone are the days of Run DMC, Ludacris and Trick Daddy.  Now, my ears and pace are more keen on the Avett Brothers, variations of Pachabel’s Canon in D and Iron and Wine. 

 

In 2006, I annihilated, schooled, simply finished my first 26.2.  I crossed the finish line 55 seconds under my goal.  When asked if I will ever do this again, I am reluctant.  For me, this whole running thing has nothing to do with the distance, the amount of time required or the need to consume goopy crap to provide nutrients during a run.  It is also the only and last time I wore a fanny pack.  Some called it a water carrier belt.  No.  Fanny pack incognito, folks. 

 

I am in awe of those who run long distances for their body and heart-needs.  For me, the six-months of training got me revved and giddy, and that was enough.  Most importantly,  I dedicated time to something I loved.   I need more of this. 

I enjoy my solitary time during my jaunts.  It is also an unexpected gift to share this time with fellow mates.  My recent run with Lisa in 28 degree weather was warmed by heart-conversations.  Cyndi and I surely conquered the parking garage stairs at the service center—it was the perfect way to wrap-up a work week and kick-off two days sans work-work-work-brain.  And, now, I have two of the best running partners.  Given, our treks are more like endless adventures, include various snack stops, and, at times, never involve running (more like corralling).  Notwithstanding, it is pure pleasure for this Mama. 

 

Bottom line, I keep running because I can.  I am still on this earth, and I want to stay connected to it.  I am able to wake up each morning, put on some shoes and move onward.  There are days  (most) when I am slow, and that’s okay.  There are times when I forget how it feels.  My days are wrapped up in hullabaloo, and, eventually and thankfully, I find my way back.  I feel my heart beating.  I feel my lungs working.  I feel my mind settling.  It feels right and too good. 

 

Let's go.