Today, for the first time since about December, I laced up my running shoes and went for a run. It was a gorgeous 55 degrees, and the roads were clear. For the first half mile, it was great. My breathing was easy, and my legs felt strong and ready. It was all downhill from there, however (in a bad way). I ran through a puddle that was deeper than I expected, soaking my shoes and socks. I ran up my first hill (about a quarter mile incline), and, by the time I hit the summit, I was almost dead. The rest of the run is a blur of God-help-me-get-through-this-what-was-I-thinking pain. As I sit here typing this post, I'm still coughing and sweating.
Now, you're probably thinking, why does he like running so much? I can't answer that question in any rational way. Ever since I was in high school, on the cross country team, I've liked the push and stress of distance running. I like setting an impossible distance for myself to run, and then making it possible. I even like the exhaustion I feel after a really good, hard, hot run.
Running is absolutely one of my favorite things. I love the sun. I love the warmth. I feel like a crocus pushing through the snow today.
Saint Marty is ready to burst into song: "May is bustin' out all over!" You get the idea.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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