Detach

Some describe runner's high like a detachment from mind and body. Quite often, it does feel that way for me. Right, left, right, left, POW! I can't help but smile, I forget about the chub rub, I don't feel the butt jiggle, and I take off, full speed ahead. I can't feel my legs. I almost look down and see myself moving. I feel six inches taller. I am (figuatively) higher. And my body screams, "I LOVE THIS!"

On other days, more often than not, it doesn't feel like that. Right... left... right... left... WHAM! Every stride is into the wall. It is a challenge to actually suck in the air. I obsess about the chafe. I incredulously examine my watch for defects. There is no way in HELL I have not been on this track/trail/belt for at least ten times longer than the time appearing on the display. I hate every step.

These unpleasant, difficult steps still scream, though. Not as loud as the good ones, but loud enough to muffle the SHOULDS. The I should call, write, spend, save, hurry up, slow down. The I should eat more vegetables, practice more yoga, overanlayze fewer relationships, watch less television, wear smaller jeans, read more books.

Which is why, even though this morning's trek was unpleasant and difficult, I will lace up again tomorrow. Because even the unpleasant and difficult miles provide detachment. If not between my mind and body, than at least between my mind and itself.