I’ve been lurking in a lamentable state of mind as the realities of life and mortality clashes and crash and push things about in unsatisfactory ways. Running has become my anchor, if nothing else but biochemically slicing off both the peaks and valleys, so when life is too busy to run properly the waves tend to get pretty big.
I didn’t get out until after nine at night, the sun threatening to drop below the horizon before I even found my turnaround point. The sluggish drag of too much sluggishness, too much eating, too much sitting, too much too-muching, all of it was adding lead to my soles… to my souls.
I had stepped out the door, literally had not even started my watch, and Sam randomly and dissonantly drove by with his big, dopey grin, giving a parabolic wave and letting his bandanna flap in the breeze from his open window. That made me grin, if for no other reason than at the randomness.
So I pressed play on my headphones –a new audiobook for a new month, some Gabriel García Márquez– and pressed start on my watch, and I ran.
Seven klicks in the lingering but uncertain heat. Seven klicks in my own head, a mental game not unlike REM sleep where and when the burdens and harangues of the day get packed away and processed. Seven klicks of junk but purposeful movement. Seven klicks of much needed solitude.