(A photo of the author and her sweaty forehead, mid-run.)
Here’s the thing about running eight miles: there are eight of them.
Eight, I tell you. Not five. Not six. Not even seven. There are eight.
I would never In My Life run eight miles. I would never In My Life run eight miles, that is, until I had run eight miles. Before the pandemic, I worked out three to four times a week. I spun. I barred. I swanned through sun salutations. But I rarely jogged except when I felt out of shape or too jiggly. And I hated it. Hated it! Each step felt more painful than the last.
Running is for chumps I would think to myself, comfortable on my high horse. It is preferable that each week, I spend a borderline unhinged amount of money to sweat in an un-aerated box while a skinny, perfect torso with a head tells me that every day is an opportunity to Grow and if we’re not Growing then we’re not Seizing and if we’re not Seizing then we’re certainly not Living and if we’re not Living, well, we might as well get the FUCK off of our exercise bikes and go the FUCK home but NOT before wiping down the handlebars as a courtesy to the next class.
I started to keep a list of what these corny, toned torsos told me each week but then I stopped because it made me sad. What they said sounded like failed presidential campaign slogans: Be in it to win it. Embrace change. Be bold. Love Trumps Hate. I’m with Her. (OK not that last one.) They insisted that this class was me time; time that I deserved; time that I should never surrender for anyone else. (Of course, my whole life is basically me time, but that didn’t really matter.) My choice to book a sunset vinyasa flow through a globally vampiric fitness app was, in fact, a moral one, the torsos insisted.
It was not. But confusing personal consumption with the public good is Now That’s What I Call Capitalism, Volume 1, so whatever. I worked on my crow pose.
Flash forward to March. With studios and gyms closed, I started to run again. And it sucked. I remembered advice an editor, who is an avid runner, gave me last year. It was something like, “You can’t assume that each mile will get worse, because it doesn’t. Sometimes it gets better.”
Sure! I probably thought at the time. Whatever you say!
But like magic, I got better.
On Sunday, when I ran eight miles, something happened at the meeting point between mile four and mile five. My body slipped into a groove. My strides grew smoother and longer. I felt refreshed, revived even, as my legs worked with the road and its gentle slope. I was running like how movie stars run: quick, strong, and silent. I am Jason Bourne, I thought. I belong on posters, in Instagram ads, in Nike commercials.
Of course, the feeling didn’t last. By mile six, my hips ached. By mile eight, my body was a two-bit carnival ride, screeching and creaking under its own weight. I crossed the imaginary finish line and staggered over to a shaded hill where I sprawled on my back for 20 minutes. No longer Jason, I basked in my impending soreness. What bliss I felt at being pushed just past the point of break down and coming loose, landing softly on a cushion of grass.
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If you’re enjoying Joy Crumbs, consider sharing it with a friend. I’d appreciate it!
Well done! Both the run and the writing.