Four Miles

"You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club." So said (purportedly) author Jack London. Having struggled recently to gin up any interest in writing, or rather, finding a subject that holds enough interest for me, I find myself wading into the kelp-filled waters of stagnancy. It is quite remarkable, really, for the only one remotely upset about this is me, and I'm not all that disturbed. For too long the browser has been my window to the world, and current events being what they are, I am compelled to retreat to another window offering a new view.

About six weeks ago, I decided to start running. I bought the shoes, the special socks and a GPS watch. In that time, I have logged over 26 miles across ten separate runs. This past Saturday, I hit a new milestone: 4.01 miles in 59:34 minutes. I can now run full quarter-mile stretches with walking breathers in between, and hit a personal best of just under 41 minutes on a 5K stretch. I even signed up for my first "official" race, just a few weeks away.

For most of my training, I have limited myself to the use of a quarter-mile track, mostly because the roads where I live just aren't that safe for running (no shoulders). But I'm finding it tiresome, this merry-go-round routine.

I got a late start Saturday morning, so by the time I arrived at the park, the walkers were out in force on the track. I decided then and there that it was time to shake things up a little. It was time to go after inspiration with a club.

People say that running clears the mind. So far, this has not been my experience. Rather, I simply find my thoughts redirected to my surroundings, the "pain" of the exercise, and the various mini-goals and landmarks that define the transitions between running and walking. I took my warm-up lap around the track, and then let loose across the parking lot, up the road and around the bend, down and around by the public pool, back up the road and around the bend and back to the track for another lap. I found myself stimulated by the simple act of spontaneously deciding to go "that way." So I did it again, but this time took off across the soccer field, back down by the pool, up to the road and then along the fence by the road until I found myself back above the track again. Another lap or two, followed by a cool-down turn, and before I knew it I had gone 4 miles and was feeling surprisingly well. I marveled at the feel of the different surfaces beneath my feet, the unrelenting asphalt, the crunch of gravel, the silence of the dew-drenched grass. I was less enamored by the squish in my toes, an all too obvious consequence of running through wet grass in breathable shoes, but even that sensation did nothing but heighten the experience of the run.

I don't believe I've yet reached the fabled "runner's high," but without question, breaking out of the merry-go-round routine was refreshing. Jack London was on to something. The run may not have cleared my mind, but perhaps it may have helped clear my vision.