I don’t mean to sound like I love running all the time. I don’t. I wish that were the case. It’s been my opinion that, like anything you do often, you have those days where it becomes just another inconsequential strand in the web of routine, like brushing your teeth. These are the days I try to remember the reasons I do run. When it seems like another chore I have to get to before I can try to relax or curl up with a book. These days are also usually the days where something hurts, my legs will tighten up or my back will refuse to relax, my clothes will rub a strange way or I’ll wind up just a little bit unimpressed by the experience. Like today, for example. It’s hard to get over. And it can be persistent. I’ve taken hiatus from running for various periods of time, and in the same way I’ve been blocked at writing, i’ll invariably come to a point where I just can’t face putting on my shoes.
I like to think this is a sign that its true love.
We have rough patches, the runs and I, where we wonder if it is really working out, but in the end, I always come back. And the run is always there for me, like it has been before. I know it won’t let me down if I just suck it up, trust it enough to get back out there. Its like writing for me that way, I can be blocked and before I know it, months have turned into over a year, and I still can’t make any progress.
Is it an excuse?
I can be a pretty gifted procrastinator, and i’ve been avoiding this blog post because of it. (Also because training has taken a turn for the drudgerous, and i’m maybe ashamed to admit it.) Things hurt. Things ache, a lot more and it seems to get worse as the miles add up. Training is taking its toll.
Sometimes writing is a chore for me. The thing I usually adore and would spend all day and night at, sometimes feels dull and almost annoying. But in the same breath, it is the way running is for me. They exist in parallel real estate in my headspace. The quirky relationship I have with these outlets is complex but rewarding. I know I can always come back to them and they will reward me. For my foolishness, for my brash attempts to return to them after I’ve spent so long neglecting, for the simple act of putting pen to paper. The pavement will always welcome me back with open roads to be raced down and the words will be waiting with their familiar solace.
Edmund Hilary is reported to have said after summiting Everest that “It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.” Its one thing to understand this concept, and quite another feat entirely to come around to it organically I think. As the marathon looms closer, i’m understanding more and more that I have my own obstacles to move past, about running, writing, and everything in between in all this interconnected eccentricity. With many long miles ahead and sore knees and joints to prove my resolve, I think I can say if this is all I learn, it will have been a victory in its own right.