Why I Run.....

The reason why some people become addicted to running is because it offers an almost absolute truth. It is objective. It is forthright. Unrelenting. Painfully honest. Joyfully cruel.
Running will never tell you that you can do something that you can't. If X then Y. If you work then you will be rewarded. The rewards are minimal. But every reward is personally noticeable and provides a reason to attempt torturing yourself through another 30-minute run tomorrow. Running is not racist. It doesn't show class bias. It's not sexist. It doesn't judge based on religion or whether you're a mean person or nice or funny for fat or skinny or bald or stupid or ignorant. Running doesn't care if you're Democrat or Republican or if you give to charity or mentor children. It doesn't care if you're selfish or a recluse.
But running cares if you run. It cares if you challenge yourself. And Running will punish you if you don't. It might even punish you if you do. Running challenges you to punish yourself, to torture or body. Call it sadomasochistic meditation.
Running allows you time to push your limits and the only judge of success is You. The watch presents the facts. You decide if the mission is failed or accomplished.
And despite your own personal limits, running has none and it inspires you to follow suit. It tells you that there is always something better than what you've done, yet gives you the leeway to enjoy today's improvement.
Today my legs didn't feel like I was lugging two tree trunks. Today my heart didn't feel like it would tear a hole in my chest. Today my body cursed me out for running those first four miles and then decided to come along for the fifth mile anyway.
Today I shaved five seconds off the 3-mile loop that I ran last week.
Today I endured a run in the rain.

Today, I actually finished my run.

Today, I didn't walk.

Today, I survived.

My legs aren't what they used to be. I remember when my chest felt like an inexhaustible engine and my legs were more like wheels. Some days my body was more ready to run than I was. My legs would beg my mind to get me off this bed so they could please get a workout. Now my legs are spoiled, fat and spiteful. They resist my every stride. They are angry about the 50 extra pounds they are forced to carry and disgusted by the aching they must endure afterward.
The hard part is that I remember what it's like to be fast. I remember when six-minute miles were normal. When 6:45 was "conversational pace" and anything slower than that was a jog. Now anything faster than 9-minute pace is an all-out sprint. Now if I raced my best friend barefoot down the block, an ambulance and oxygen mask better be on stand by.

Well, not now. That was before.

Now I don't need to be fast. Now I just need to finish what I start. Now I'm just happy to put one foot in front of the other. I'd be happy to see the numbers on the scale recede. I'd be happy if my legs weren't so damn disagreeable. But they're getting the point. We're going to run whether they like it or not. And every day will be a reward. Every second shaved. Every breath that wasn't an uncontrollable pant. I'm happy just to run. I'm happy just to finish.