Freedom
that comes my way thanks to the magnificence that is movement. Freedom that happens when I get to
experience a day jam-packed with mountain views. Freedom that’s borne of good,
old physicality that sometimes leaves my legs sore and nearly always leaves my mind spinning.
Need.
Need
to jog the endorphins around 10 to 16 hours a week at a frequency that
allows my brain to fully engage. Need to feel the fatigue in my quads on the
steep ups and downs, and in my hamstrings and calves after the short,
fast runs. Need to play with the push-ups and weights and pull-up bar and TRX trainer
so as to take my upper-body muscles to failure and my cardiovascular system to
its favorite panting place.
Hope.
Hope
that my next big creative idea for work is out there somewhere waiting for me
to run into it. Hope that I will make my way to another friend or two along the
way. Hope that my 14-year-old will see the old dude out there getting it done
over and over and over — and loving it more and more as time marches on — and
maybe just maybe find his own calling in running or some other thing physical.
Joy.
Joy that floods my being on every long run. Joy that allows me to share my gifts of gab and endurance and mental
weirdness with my regular running buddies and anybody else who happens to grace
me with their on-the-run presence. Joy of reaching for a little
longer, a little faster, a little more patience, a little brighter day. Joy of putting
up a performance that surprises me. Joy of landing on a crazy new goal, then
quietly striving in pursuit of it.
So
beyond grateful that running found me.
