Saturday, April 11, 2009


Every Saturday morning of late, when I've woken up and been faced with the prospect of a ridiculously long training run, my brain has been having the same thoughts:  I'm not doing this next year.  Is it EVER going to be above 30 degrees on a morning when I have to run more than ten miles outside?  Note to self, you are NOT doing this next year.

Then I fill my water belt with Gatorade, put on my ugly black ear wrap, lace up my Nikes, and kiss my family good-bye.  Sarah meets me outside.  We walk for a minute or two, I complain about being up and outside in the early-morning cold, and then we run.  And we talk.  And we run some more.  Sometimes a beautiful white cat comes out of the woods and follow us for a minute or two.  We stop to pet it, laugh at its run, remember all the cats we've ever had.  Sometimes we see a handmade sign, written on cardboard in black marker and tied to a streetpost with red yarn:  "1.  Get up off your ass.  2.  Find something you love and do it.  3.  Repeat step 2 indefinitely."  We cheat a little, stopping to walk the hills and have a drink, and before we know it, the sun has come out.  The daffodils and crocuses are blooming.  The people we meet move over for us, say "Good morning."

Coming back into the house, fourteen miles behind me, I have changed my tune.  I am glad to have started the day this way, glad my body still listens when I command one foot to fall in front of the other, glad to have a short break from serving breakfast to small people and negotiating what they will wear today, glad for the steaming cup of coffee Jason hands to me when I walk in the front door.  I don't know; maybe I'll do it again next year.

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