Since I was a kiddo, I've always hated the sensation of running. The way it feels in my chest when I can't quite breathe, like an ache in my trachea. The itching all over my skin, usually starting with my chest and my thighs but gradually taking over until there is no part of my body that does not itch. Even my teeth. The heat. The insects. And the feeling that I (huff) should (puff) be (huff) able (puff) to (huff) do (puff) this (wheeze)! I hear about the runner's high, and I get it. It's gotta be lack of oxygen. Some people like that. I don't
I am not the only one, I know. I'm sure this isn't the first blog post that has ever been written about how some-people-hate-to-run but-do-it-anyway.
Well. I do hate to run. But I ran this evening. I went from the forest service road, past the Budweiser veteran burial ground* and on to the big-tree-bridge-that-I dare-not-cross**. I ran all that way, without stopping. Then I walked back, but it was a brisk walk. Almost a jog. Again, no stopping.
And I did not die. I didn't even really feel like I was dying until I was done.
I want the world to know that it was a very good run. And I still hate running.
*There is a tree with an unopened tall can of Budweiser under it, sitting next to a small American flag. The tree is surrounded by a circle of white powder, which my brain has decided is the ashy remains of a war hero.
**It is massive but the tree feels all spongy underfoot. It spans a small ravine. Far enough to fall, and I hate falling even more than I hate running. It seems like a good place to turn around.