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 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 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 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.