Asphalt

When I run, I spend a lot of time looking at the ground, at least at the beginning when I’m trying to coerce my body into some kind of rhythm and my mind into full acceptance of what I’ve committed to.  The ground is hard and unforgiving as my feet hit it.  It’s dull and grungy looking as I start my way up the first hill in my six-mile journey.  The black soaks up the heat of the sun and I’m convinced that contributes to my four footed companion’s enthusiastic gait.

Half way through the first song I begin to relax—relaxing, even during physical exertion, is my daily conquest in life—and soon my body starts to fall into a comfortable cadence.  My mind begins to wander, almost as if I’m in that pre-slumber groggy state where everything feels soft and not so severe as it had during waking hours.  I begin to let go of all the thoughts that have been swirling around in my head and focus on whichever one asserts itself most boldly.

Running, for me, is a time where I can actually get things organized in my head so that when I get home I am focused and ready to tackle the task at hand.  This is when I start to enjoy my self-imposed challenge.  Suddenly the possibilities seem endless—I can solve the problem that previously seemed overwhelming, I begin to let my mind wander and start envisioning not just enduring life, but embracing it. 

People aren’t kidding when they say that exercise keeps them sane.  That makes me chuckle to read that previous sentence because anyone who knew me before my thirties would have voted me least likely to exercise.  Ever.  It’s not that I was a complete couch potato.  Rather, I just never found exercise terribly inspiring.  The pay off wasn’t worth the effort to me.  It took me hitting my forties to realize that my inspiration wasn’t going to come from love of sport.  Rather, it was going to come from caring enough about myself to block out precious time just for me.  I’ll admit I’m quite pleased that my derriere is less gelatinous than it was and that I have the chutzpah to run for two hours non-stop.  But if running hadn’t given me breathing space, I wouldn’t have given it a second chance.

Atlanta is really hilly, which contributes to a lot of looking down when I have to reach inside myself to keep going.  There’s that asphalt again.  Just as unforgiving as it’s always been.  It’s my ongoing fear that I’ll trip and skin my knee during one of my jaunts.  Uh.  The prospect of asphalt mixing with scraped flesh makes my skin crawl as much today as it did when I was a kid.  In between gasps of air to get me through my ascent and paranoia about tripping, I notice sparkles emanating from the pavement.  Crazy.  Even ugly, utilitarian asphalt can project beauty in the right light.

This metaphor is not lost on my as I near the end of my circuit and head back into the neighborhood.  I see a lot of bleakness around me: people struggling with illnesses, with their marriages, with their jobs.  Sometimes just trying to please four different taste pallets at breakfast can make me want to go back to bed.  But there really are the shimmery parts to be found in all of it.  

I wish I could end my soliloquy right there.  It’s a nice, tidy way to wrap up some musings.  But it’s not reality for me.  Yet.  My next training phase is going to have to require a commitment to get my spirit to the level of endurance that my body has achieved.  I’d better start making a good, long play list.