Every weekday, one of the things I’m looking forward to about the weekend is this run. The long distance, where I get to really feel like a distance runner, slow or not, big or not, cold or not. I think about how good it will feel to be out there, to push out a few miles, to see how I feel at the end. And while a few long runs, back last year mostly, have ended with me feeling in pain and awful, mostly I end with a triumphant feeling.
But for some reason, the 2 hours before, my stomach starts to roil, and my heart beats in my throat. I feel overwhelmed, even frightened by the idea of setting out the door. I procrastinate, sitting in my pajamas and thinking about a second cup of coffee. I don’t know why. I don’t feel afraid of the distance, I don’t feel afraid of the run. I know I can do this, and I want to.
Maybe it’s some deep buried instinct designed to avoid pointless exertion. My body knows that this run isn’t for food or immediate survival, so it’s trying to get it’s vote on the matter, to shut down the whole process. Maybe it’s my
A blog I follow did a bit on the popular phrase “Listen to your body” and how all over the blogosphere people are congratulating others on listening to their bodies. Well, I guess this post is me agreeing with her. My body is a traitor, a lout who would like another cup of coffee and maybe an extra large bag of M&M’s. So I’m not listening to it. I’m running 9 miles.
See you folks in a couple hours. Body, on your feet.