Earlier this year I decided that resuming running would be a fabulous idea. The opportunity to act on this thought was, however, rather slim; a late and lengthy commute saw me home at past 8 pm most days, and the prospect of cozy pjs and eating a toasted bagel while perusing the daily news was a greater temptation than a lonely trek down a dark – and therefor slightly creepy – trail.
A fortunate change to this situation arose some 4 weeks ago, and last weekend I started my training. I am pathetically out of shape, and manage to alternate huffing through a 0.1 mile run and walking the same distance about 5 times. But 1/2 mile of running + 1/2 mile of walking = 1 mile more than eating a toasted bagel and reading the news achieved, so I hold out hope that my persistence will lead to a generally healthier lifestyle.
I had an interesting experience while running: I pictured myself, lean and ponytailed, swiftly gaining the wooded trail near my house. Afterwards I had a sense of accomplishment even though I am not exactly lean and my hair needs about 2 more inches of growth in order to achieve ponytailability. I wonder how others who run may similarly fantasize. The Oatmeal provides me with some clues plus some reassurance that I am not evil when I eat half a box of bite-size Butterfingers.
The running bug has invaded many corners of my life, including style. I suddenly find myself designing a knock-off Narciso Rodriguez creation I call the track dress due to its track-suit striping.
I also find myself perusing Zappos for far too long in search of the perfect running shoe: comfy toe box, arch support, plenty of cushioning, and a rigid sole.
I do this while forgetting to empty the garbage, vacuum up the dust, check my calendar. And while these things are important, they are also distractions from the essential voice of the trail, which creates the space into which my thoughts of trees and ocean and wind can beautifully inhabit. So it’s nice to have the time to forget, and to remember.