The run

I have the body of a sprinter, but always ran long distance. My wind would stabilize, my muscles would synchronize, my mind would clear...at about mile 2.5 and just improve after that.

For decades I ran. My high school P. E. teacher, Ms. Vidano, instilled the love of the run, and it remains to this day, long past when I should endeavor to tread the roads for miles and miles.

The run sustained me after my (very early life) divorce.

The run helped reconnect with a childhood friend, who had ventured far for college but returned for work, and who found me enjoying a post-work cigarette and glass of wine on my balcony one night and said, 'Oh, no, this isn't right. Put that fucking thing out. I'll be here in the morning. We're going shopping, and we're going running.'

Loved that. He was right, and he was awesome, and he got me back out of a trench and into my running love zone.

Then I met my now love, my man of many years, father of my children, partner in all things. He was a runner. A marathoner. A soccer dude in high school, college, semi-pro. The real deal. We ran.

And then we made a baby boy.  After which I ran when I could. For several years.

And then we made a baby girl.  During which I ran until I couldn't. And then afterward, for many years.

And then I got really sick. I had been training for a half-marathon. In the summer heat.  And I got chickenpox when my kids got it. My early childhood exposure hadn't created enough antibodies, it turns out. Thank you Grandma Gin and massive doses of Vitamin C. I never actually got the pox as a child...but I did as an adult. The pox were subdued by antiviral meds but the pox did their worst in my body, and I had issues. For a couple of years.

I still remember the first time I tried to run after chickenpox...I thought I was feeling better, but I really wasn't.  After about a half mile in the brutal heat I thought my head was going to explode....so i stopped.

For awhile I stopped, but then I commenced.

And continued for decades.

One day my chiropractor scolded me, for longer than usual, about the impact the running had on my aging bones. After I glared at him (I was vain, ok?) I mumbled something about trying to come up with an alternative.

So I walked..power walked. A lot. Because I can't seem to do things in any rational way, I just go all out.

And that sucked. It worked, I suppose, but it sucked because I didn't get my runner's high. I just walked and worked and, you know, walked.

A few years ago I decided to occasionally jog a bit during my walks, you know, to just add a little spice to things. I still do that, and it feels good because a: I don't do much, and b: I ice my knees when I get home.

But I miss the run.

Tonight, my man and I were out for a post dinner walk. On the same route I used to run so far for so long.

I imagined myself in my stride, feeling the sun on my face, the air in my lungs, the burn in my legs, and the joy in my being.

It was a lovely moment, filled with the memory of the run.

And then we joined hands, smiled, and strolled through the night, him with his new hip moving nicely and his body strong and healing, me content knowing that sometimes it's ok to just move along at a nice, steady pace, and not just dash through it all.

There's something to that, yes?

Hugs, all.

Stevie