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Thoughts About Running

I don’t know if I believe in runner’s high. Sure it’s been documented as existing, but, like orgasms or meditative trance, it’s probably not attainable for everyone.

I am not built to do this. It is the opposite of comfortable. I try to pay constant attention to the angle of my knees, which I attempt to point straight ahead, like a man’s, to avoid injury. This is also why I’m avoiding the heel strike, but the more tired one gets, the harder it is to take the next step correctly.

Within five minutes every ounce of mucous normally housed in my head has liquefied and would be traveling its way down my esophagus but for the intense repetitive exhalation that keeps it, annoyingly, lodged in my throat. But any pause to spit or clear my throat must be cataloged as a rest break, will be admitting defeat, and therefore must be denied at all costs. The cleanliness of my sneakers shames me. I’m sure that all the real runners I see will take one look at me and know I’m a fraud. Anyone who is a real runner must be completing, at the very least, one more mile than I am, and I am sure they resent me for taking up space, forcing them to detour around me. I resent them in turn.

Wind is my enemy. Red traffic lights are my enemy, as are turning cars, with which I play a special game of Chicken. Cell phone users, hand-holding couples, double-wide stroller mommies, nuclear families out for a walk, window shoppers, fuck you all.

I’m generally a nicer person than this. A smarter person who would never willingly listen to Britney Spears. I chalk it up to oxygen deprivation, but I also know, unquestionably, that the me who runs could and would kick the ass of the me who doesn’t.

Miles run today: 2
Weekly miles: 13
Miles on shoes: 13

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