Running for my Life

One foot in front of the other

I have a love/hate relationship with running. On a good day, when the legs are fresh, it can feel like flying. I’m light on my feet, the strides are effortless, and I finish with a sense of exhausted euphoria that can’t be duplicated with cycling or swimming. But on a bad day, which can seldom be predicted, I feel sluggish, leaden, out of breath. A knee hurts, or an Achilles tendon tight, a dry mouth, a pounding heart. And yet I persist, through the seasons, running on snow and ice with spiked shoes, before sunrise on hot, humid summer days, and in soaking rain. 

The easy answer to why I run is that it simply hurts too much to stop and then start up again later. Those times when I’ve started running after a long hiatus are some of the most painful. The days after those first few short runs, my thighs turn to concrete, my ankles protest, and during the runs themselves, two miles feels like a marathon. But there’s something else that keeps me out there, and it’s a little more elusive to pin down.