I wasn’t initially going to write today. Albeit, I ran a route that last year had me gagging, begging for a greater aerobic threshold, and a nice curb to sit down on, and vomit my inside upon the asphalt.
I returned to this paved pavilion this afternoon, accompanied by one runner who unbeknownst to him has made leaps in a very short period of time. It has captured his imagination, and therefore his potential is infinite.
This time, the course was somewhat more forgiving. Aside from reaching 8 beats short of my maximal oxygen uptake, and easily dropping tens of ounces of fluids on a 35 degree day, the route was more manageable than at this time last year.
There comes a time after a hard run, wherein the body instinctively begins to repair itself, and lactic acid slowly is released and accumulated in the muscles. This lead-laden feeling effectively begins and usually concludes 20 minutes after vigorous exercise.
About 10 minutes following this arduous 8 miles, several other running fellows offered to come for a run with them. After about the first 2 minutes, I began to internally pray: “Dearly beloved, are you listening?”
So the sun went down, the cars went faster, and the legs grew heavier. I began to question my sanity. Was I insane, or just overjoyed? Up to the top of the biggest hill I know of, and back down. Stopping for another 2 minutes, to facilitate lactic acid’s molten path to my muscles. Faith and misery kept me moving.
So I just ran back home. Drank Gatorade, and more Gatorade. I wasn’t going to sit down and write tonight. But the complete depletion and inherent discomfort which I endured and exist therein, has further defined me.
There is a moment after very, very hard runs, when you endure it with someone else, a sense of mutual assurance and trust is established.
I dont know what causes it, but it is inherent in vigirous effort, and it happened today, and I feel no shame.
