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| Image from
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I remember
running. Autumn—air crisp and invigorating, azure sky, and trees dressed in
flaming splendor. Winter—the sting of sleet, whisper of falling snow, and air
so cold that when my eyes watered, it froze like glacial tears on my cheeks.
Spring—dogwoods, daffodils, and azaleas blooming, the first robins, and gentle
rains. And summer—sweltering heat, the smell of new mown hay, and thunderheads
looming on the horizon. I remember running.
The first time I
ran as an adult, excluding running the bases in family softball games, running
to answer the phone when I was outside and heard it ringing insistently inside
the house (Pre-cellphone days), or running from an angry wasp or hornet (they
sting), was in March of 1979. I was 33-years-old.
I began running not
for the aerobic benefits. Not to lose weight. Not because running was the “in thing” to do. I
began for salvation. Yes, that’s right, salvation. More specifically to save
myself from debilitating anxiety. The
reason why I was dealing with such anxiety is another story, best left untold,
but as I said, the anxiety was debilitating, to the point that I was having
panic attacks.
I would wake up
in the wee hours of the night, the house silent and dark around me, and listen
to my heart racing frantically in my chest, and I was afraid. Afraid of what, I
didn’t know. I was simply afraid. Not understanding why, I went to see our
family doctor, who prescribed some type of antianxiety drug. I’ve forgotten
which drug specifically; however, after only a few doses, I realized that I did
not want to feel that way—like I was sleepwalking through my days. Nor did I
want to be dependent upon medication to keep me sane.
At some point I
read an article, perhaps in a magazine, perhaps in the newspaper, about the
benefits of running, one of which was the reduction of anxiety. That very day,
I took the bottle of pills to the bathroom, uncapped the bottle, dumped the contents
in the john, and pushed the lever. The little pills swirled around in the tank
for an instant then disappeared and were gone forever.
Donning a pair
of canvas sneakers, I left the house, closed the door behind me, and immediately
broke into a run. I think I made it as far as the mailbox at the top of the
hill before I had to stop, gasping for air. We lived in the country on a dirt
road about a quarter mile from the next road, which was paved. When I regained
my breath and once more began to run, I made it as far as the stop sign at the
intersection. Doubling over, fighting to breathe, I almost retched. But not to
be deterred by such a minor inconvenience as lack of air or the sudden pain in
my side, I started running again. This time I covered even less distance before
I had to stop. On top of my labored breathing, my shins were killing me. As it
turned out, I had shin splints. Not only were my legs unaccustomed to such
exertion, my sneakers were not designed for running.
The following
day I drove to a local discount department store—maybe Kmart, maybe Walmart, or
another store entirely (I’ve long forgotten)—where I purchased a pair of Nike Pegasus
running shoes (I remember those shoes distinctly). Then, I waited for my shins
to heal, reading a book on running in the interim, after which I started over
again—and correctly. I would run for a few minutes, walk for a few minutes,
then run again, and as the weeks passed, my running time became longer and my
walking time shorter. By June of 1979 I was running 10 miles without stopping
and walking none of that distance. Moreover, for the first time that summer I
experienced the runner’s high, that endorphin-generated state of euphoria
produced during prolonged period of physical exertion.
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| Image fron ak.picdn.net |
Even now, these
many years later, I vividly recall that day. It was autumn, late afternoon, and
I had been running for perhaps eight miles, when suddenly—click—like a switch had been turned on—I experienced a sense of
almost overwhelming exultation and peace, as well as a “oneness” with the world
around me. The world, in fact, had never looked so astoundingly beautiful. Each
leaf on every tree was distinct, the play of light across the fields was almost
too beautiful to behold, the chimney sweeps soaring against the red and dying
sky took my breath away. Everything was so astoundingly beautiful. It was like
seeing the world for the first time, or, more appropriately, the way a person
must feel who has been blind from birth and miraculously had her sight
restored. I felt like I could reach out and touch the face of God. I also felt if I could run forever—just continue putting
one foot in front of the other until my heart exploded from the sheer unadulterated
joy of running. I had never felt so
alive.
I continued running
10 miles a day for years, until 1991 to be exact, and though I didn’t always
experience the runner’s high, I experienced it occasionally and often enough to
make me truly appreciate it for what it was (at least to me)—a form of
communion with my Creator.
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| Image from nailsworrthstrengthandfitness.co. uk |
After 1991,
however, though I occasionally ran and sometimes for long distances, I was no
longer compulsive about it, perhaps because my salvation was no longer
dependent upon running, since my circumstances had changed (another story).
But, alas, time takes its bitter toll. I am now much, much older, and my body
will no longer allow me to run. I miss running, though. I miss it desperately. I
miss feeling my legs churning in long, smooth strides over winding dirt roads
and along shaded, woodland trails. I miss the wind and rain and sun on my face
as the miles fly past. I miss the measured beat of my pulse, the sweat
streaming into my eyes, the sound of my Nikes padding over the earth. I miss
running.
