Trail running has become my metaphor for life. Pretty much everything can be explained by running over packed earth.
Yesterday, we ran 7 miles. I don’t wanna brag but…. 7. MILES. Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, they were 7 long, windy, bloody miles. There was some walking. And a very unfriendly fellow runner. It was fantastic.
I had my roommate drop me off at the north end of the trail, and I had to run home. When turning around isn’t an option, you have to just gut it out, because moving forward is the only way you are going to get home. In December, moving forward is also the only way to guarantee you stay warm enough.
Usually, I don’t keep track of how far we run every day, in miles. All I know is that it takes an hour, regardless of the trail we hit or the weather conditions or how slow we go. As it turns out, 7 miles takes an hour and a half (this time.) I suspect we’ve been running farther in that hour than I realized. Actually, I don’t care how far we run. The point is, we run.
Today, though, all I wanted to do was sleep away the afternoon. The dog has a nap timer. Twenty minutes, and momma needs to wake up. Wet black nose, accompanied by silly crying noises said nap time was over. Breezey again today, but sunny. So, we loaded up the Blazer in search of adventure.
Once we got out there, all I REALLY wanted to do was pound out the miles, attack the trail, feel the strength in my own body. We ran 7 miles the day before. Which means I must be stronger than I thought. My body had other plans.
Sure, we got in a good run. Covered 4 or 5 miles. The last half mile, when I really wanted to fly, to finish strong, push harder, didn’t happen. I was forced to walk, limp back to the car like some chump who wears all the gear to just look cool. I wish I had a shirt that announced “Hey, I ran a long way! This Under Armour isn’t a fashion statement! We really did run! I swear!”