I’m in pain…or so my quads are. They speak to me on the stairs primarily, the language of the marathon, but one which I didn’t run. I am in debasing religious pain from running 2 hours in the woods of Southern Indiana, with nearly no buildup to the effort. No matter. I knew I was punishing myself in a way. I knew I was damaging myself…and I don’t care. It felt great and it felt exhausting when I finished. I was nauseous from going without water and only Gels. I was punished.
I knew it was going to hurt today and I didn’t care, because I also knew I wasn’t going to run today. No time…truthfully. Ok, there is time, but an hour I no longer care to meet. The 4 am wake up call can keep silent from now on. I have work and family and the need not to be a pendulum of emotions. I need sleep. I also need running.
So I ran to punish myself for not running…well, it just feelst that way. I knew running hard for 2 hours was going to get me the next day and the next, but I don’t care anymore. There is no race to train for. There is no need to manage pain. There is no need to recover. There are only minutes wasted on the doldrums of daily life and the opportunites to break away from them.
I’ll probably keep punishing myself. I’ll probably keep savoring the two days later reminders that I still did something awesome for a couple hours. I’m now doing it “for the love”, but maybe more truthfully as a reminder that I’m incredibly not dead.
Printed matter is a manner of permanency and I etch short stories into my legs not to forget my history.