I had one of those runs yesterday, you know the kind, where your body feels effortless and your arms and legs fly and you get inside “the zone” and you feel invincible and optimistic and the snow-covered mountains border the horizon and the air is cool and damp and you realize that yes, you are exactly where you are meant to be in life.
|Photo caption: I have no idea, hee, hee.|
It was that kind of run, and except for the first and last couple of miles, I felt like that the whole way. Flying down the hill from Kincaid Park felt almost religious, almost holy; it was that perfect.
This morning wasn’t perfect, though. I’ve been doubling up long runs on weekends in anticipation of maybe, maybe running an ultra (an ultra!) later this summer. Since the trails are covered in ankle-deep slush, I’ve been running over 40 miles per week on the roads.
Ouch! Pavement hurts when you’re used to soft and snowy trails. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m getting old and my joints are sore.
Nah, I blame the pavement.
Still, what is it about long runs that are so awesome, so addicting? It’s as if they strip you to the core, strip you past ego and leave you shivering and naked and unadorned and totally and truly yourself.
Running: 48 miles for last week (wheee!)
Reading: Fat Girl, by Judith Moore and Pack of Two, by Caroline Knapp (two very favorite writers of mine and both are dead, sigh, sigh