I Was Running While I Wrote This...

...forgive me if it goes totally apeshit.


I actually left work at 6:40 looking forward to a run. I even felt a little of the old school's-out-and-it's-time-for-practice vibe of yesteryear. The drive home dampened my spirits somewhat, and I found myself making calls for companionship on this venture, though none was to be found. Oddly I started to think about running with Mimi. What would happen if I just called her and invited her out for a trot? Well, I'll tell you what would happen: it would fucking suck. End of thought.

I cleverly used the nifty new online running tool to plot my distances (I lost my watch several months ago, and besides, no longer have any concept of pace) and found, to my surprise, that the route I thought would fall short of 3 miles turned out to be over 4. Not wanting to figure out a new route in the dark, I threw on my new kicks and lit out for faint glory at what I assumed to be a 7 minute mile. It did not take long before this caught up to me, and I felt winded and out of tune-- all assholes and elbows-- creaking down the road.

About a half mile in, my mind started to wander, and I thought some more about Mimi. What if I could go back and do it over? What if I had never had sex with her and had decided to just be friends instead? Would such a terrible lover have made a worthwhile friend? Would I have someone to run with tonight? When I went through therapy, the Dr. made an off the cuff comment about remaining friends with her. It was something along the lines of, "Sure, you can do that... in three years if you are both in other relationships." What finally allowed me to move on, as much as I have moved on, was the realization that I didn't want to be friends with her-- not then; not ever. Was that still true? I thought some more about the cheating and the lies, not just to me, but to all the people she said she cared about. I thought about the deep nastiness she'd unleash when she didn't get her way and I realized that there really wasn't a whole lot of value in having her in my life at all.

At this point, I'd reached the bottom of a steep hill (that I scrambled down in a graceless stomp), and come upon the long flat straightaway through the canyon. I snapped back to the moment-- to the run-- when I felt something shift. Maybe it was the change of terrain or maybe it was the anger, I'm not sure, but briefly my stride smoothed out and lengthened and everything felt easy. It didn't last long, but for a fleeting instant, I had contact with something inside that I haven't felt in a while: that little caged animal that broke out and whispered "run". So for a moment, I did. Seconds later it was gone, and while I tried to push myself hard through the straight, it was an unremarkable and losing battle to gangly form, rising phlegm, flagging pace and mild gastrointestinal insurrection.

I had thought that the best part of the run was over, and the only thing left was the surety, as I passed the halfway point, that, no matter what, I would finish. When I started going up the hill though, I thought about hill repeats, and how I'd do them on the steep canyon sides when I got in better shape. That led to thinking about the summer, when I'd add a mile after the repeats, at race pace, to practice finishing strong when I'm fatigued. That, of course, started me thinking about racing, and a few hundred yards later, I'm throwing myself through the paces of my first triathalon ever (entirely imagined as I haven't done one yet). I started with the transition to the bike, thinking about how I'd be behind, but maybe with all the swimming lately, not so far behind as I'd once thought. I'd gain some on the bike. Maybe a lot. Maybe I'd be in second by then, if it was a small enough race.

Here I am now, about a mile and a half left to go in my run, and I'm thinking about being 300 yards off the lead at mile 1 of a 5K. I put myself through the pace-- doing math I'd be way to tired to figure out in my head during a real race. If we're doing 6 minute pace, I've got just over 2 miles to make up a minute and a half. I think of the splits in quarter mile intervals, and think of reeling him in, inch by inch, until I'm 20 yards off with a quarter to go.

Here, in my head, I kick it down, and run the life out of me, while back in the cooling San Diego night, I trot gently into my driveway, and shake off my legs...