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Monday, September 15, 2014

September 16, 2014

I hate running. If there was any other type of exercise that would give me the tone and cardio running does, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I’d even do yoga for God’s sake. But I’ve dabbled in swimming, biking, climbing, even the elliptical – and although all of them are more enjoyable than running, I have a terrible addiction to running. It’s the kind of addiction that might sit latent and inactive for a few months, but then return with a vengeance on one unassuming sunny day, and suddenly closet doors fly open and old running shoes crusty with last year’s mud are brought out into the open, and I throw them on without giving myself a chance to change my mind. Because I will change it if I have the chance. I hate running.
Tonight Jordan came home late and we decided to go running. I don’t mind it so much when I’m running with someone. I ran all summer with my friend, the quarterback from my high school. I was training for the Army, and apparently all the Army does is run, so I really pushed myself, and when I couldn’t push myself, he would push me. Literally. He would get behind me and run against me to push me when I wanted to walk. I could finish 7 miles in an hour. Glory days.
I had that stupid cloud lingering over my red, sweaty head throughout the run, the cloud of guilt. It doesn’t help Jordan runs like the freaking Energizer bunny. I’m serious. He practically prances. We stop at the sports fields outside of the UW gym to do push-ups, crunches, and the like. It’s dark and the dew has set on the grass, so that doesn’t make it any easier to work out. And then Jordan’s pumping out his push-ups like a maniac, and I’m complaining about how much I used to work out when I was preparing for the military, how I would lift and run and box and hike and bike, and how toned my muscles were, and I’m all but begging him not to judge me by my current abilities, but to just trust me when I say I used to be some tough shit. I keep talking and squeaking out a few push-ups and crunches, and he’s silently pounding out his routine with a look on his face that belongs in a Gatorade commercial. And then I realize I sound just like people I want to slap sometimes: the people that live in the dreams of their future or in the success of their past to excuse themselves from the choice to make in the present.
My choice is staring at me in the face as I lie on the wet grass staring up at the few bright stars that are visible behind Seattle’s haze. Either I try, or I don’t. It’s nice to chat with Jordan while we run, and it’s funny to giggle as we do high skips across the ground. But that’s not why I left the apartment building with my running shoes on. I left to feel the wind in my lungs making my throat hoarse as I gasp for breath; I left to push myself to my limit, and then show myself that I can go beyond it; I left to bring my muscles to life and revert to the most basic of human functions: movement, exertion, challenge, and accomplishment. But I’m not accomplishing. Look at me. I’m weak. I can’t run three miles in thirty minutes; I used to run that in less than twenty minutes back in high school. I can’t do sixty push-ups; I used to do twice that on an incline with weights. What’s wrong with me? I’m sure as hell Jordan doesn’t even believe me when I say I used to train for the Army. I sure as hell know I wouldn’t believe me.
It’s the last mile. Mom used to say to me back when I ran cross country that when you hit the point where you feel that you can’t go on, run faster. It tricks your body and you hit what’s called a second wind. Jordan and I are running through UW’s dark campus and we come to six flights of stone stairs in a row. Last time I ran this with him, I walked them. I won’t do that this time. I jump the first three steps in one dramatic leap and Jordan keeps at my shoulder. I take the next nine steps in two’s. We race across a bridge to the next two flights of stairs, and we take them, both of us breathless but persistent. We don’t let ourselves stop. At the top of the third flight, Jordan’s pulling ahead. My muscles scream. I can’t catch my breath. I need to stop. I won’t stop. Halfway up the fourth flight, Jordan fights to tell me he notices I’m not walking these steps. Like hell I’m not. Almost there. It’s the fifth flight and my legs want to collapse under me. Run faster. Tell yourself you can, and you can. God it hurts so bad. I peak the sixth flight, but I don’t have time to feel victorious because there’s still another half mile left until we’re back. I know Jordan expects me to slow down, but I’m done making excuses. Success is a choice, not an opportunity. You want something, you fight for it. I want to run, and I want to run well. I spread out my stride on the downhill, and we’re coming back into town. I can hear him running behind me and it bums the hell out of me that he’s hardly panting now. Gosh I’ve lost so much in such a short time. Keep running. Look forward, not backward. Success starts with the choice to give yourself everything you possibly can to succeed. That means endurance. It means persistence. It means focusing onto your dream, and letting go of whatever could hold you back. It sounds like I’m preaching, and I hate preaching, but I guess I need to write this for myself more than anyone else. It helps to just write it down.
I wish I could write this melodramatic victorious finish where I sprint the end and joyously high five Jordan and we go inside and drink kale and almond shakes and I take a nice shower and relax content with my enduring battle. I did sprint the finish, and sulked. Jordan high fived me and I reluctantly high fived him back. I took a cold shower, and then sat solemnly at the kitchen table while Jordan graciously made me a shake. Because I’m still human, and I sound like I’ve cracked the code and figured it out, but even in this little accomplishment, I’m still comparing myself to the past. I can’t help it.

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