Revival

Incredibly, I can only estimate the number of days, months, or years it has been since I last ran consistently. I do know that it's been the better part of a year since I ran a single mile. And before that was a year of running an occasional mile or perhaps two miles. And before that were a couple of years of my body being able to run five or six miles when called upon, but such lengths were far from a consistent routine. Sometime before that I considered my routine run to be six or seven miles, and when I calculate all this tapering off, my memory arrives at a time almost seven years ago when my most consistent running partners moved away.

Not that most of my runs were community ones--I did mostly solo running--but my running partners, in retrospect, were a major motivation for my habit. Even when I had skipped a week of solo runs, I knew I would be running six miles on Thursday morning with Brad and Nick. After they left Kansas City, I still ran consistently, and Amy kept me inspired with her partnership, but I didn't run as often, and my frequency declined. And then Amy moved away in August of 2016. My running habit at that point could already be defined as a "rare" occurrence, but her move paired with my purchase of a house for the first time in my life precipitated the veritable death of my running habit. I went out for the occasional mile after moving into my house, but these modest efforts quickly tapered off to become every few weeks until each of them became an effort to "get started" again, and eventually this led to complete abandonment of the discipline.

But a couple weeks ago, I began my running habit again with a more determined commitment. My first effort was less than two miles on an urban trail, and I could feel well before I finished that the muscles in my legs were going to be quite sore. Since in all my running, including nine marathons from 2008 to 2011, I never quit smoking, I assumed that, in re-committing to the habit of running, my lungs would be the primary setback. But despite reaching an out-of-breathness rather quickly, I settled into a pace my lungs could accommodate. And while I'm certain it was a much slower pace than I was used to in my former running days, I realized it was my legs that need to be nursed back into the habit. Since that initial run, I've been out three more times, and my legs feel better each time. As for my lungs, they have survived, though what feels like the pace I ran in my prime is about a minute slower per mile.

I have yet to run more than two miles, but what I'm struck by is this: the joy that running brought me in the past has come back immediately. Though it may take my muscles and my lungs some time to reach the levels of function they previously knew, the pleasure of running trails, of choosing my steps, of feeling my feet against the earth, of navigating roots and rocks, of sighting birds and hearing squirrels scurry through leaves and up tree trunks, is a source of unforgotten pleasure. On each of my four brief runs, I have found instant focus and simultaneously instant freedom. My thoughts and my eyes wander. My eyes and my feet work in sync. My mind connects to my body, and I silently--without even speech or thought--offer thanks and praise for being alive. Put quite simply, I feel whole.