I have the equivalent of twins
brought to full term hanging over my waistband. I have a rickety ankle that
quit bothering to make noise and I deal with chronic pain every day. I have
asthma, high blood pressure and high cholesterol. One month ago, I decided to
go for a run.
Once upon a time, I ran. A few
years after high school, I was asked (and felt challenged) to take a run with a
friend. To my surprise, the wheezing and shortness of breath that plagued any
athletic activity previously did not handicap my newfound practice. And
practice it was. I ran a few 5ks and trained hard to run a 7-mile race along
the Mississippi near the Iowa, Illinois border. I ran 10 miles to prepare for
the 7; exploring my hometown in a way I never dreamed that I would. The Bix 7, as it was (is?) called, was a real
test of my will and confidence. I ran it two years in a row and improved on my
time by five minutes.
Years passed. I took up smoking for
a while. I liked to eat, too much and too often (I still do, I suppose). I had
a few surgeries, exploratory for the most part, meant to relieve pain in my
groin area; ineffective unfortunately. I
got married and we had a child and it still hurt. Three years ago, new pain
arrived in my neck and shoulder; pain that goes unresolved, only treated with a
cocktail of pain meds that tend to make me sleepy as soon as I slow down.
I spent eight weeks in physical
therapy a few months ago and, while it provided little relief of the pain, it
felt good to exercise. At the end of the eight weeks, my therapist advised me
to use the time I had put aside for PT to continue my exercises. While my daily
schedule quickly filled back up, I was able to do this late at night after I
got off work and was alone.
I work at a hospital with lots of
health nuts. I listen to some encourage each other on their exercise routines.
I harbored some jealousy, believing this kind of exercise was a thing of the
past for me. I thought my body was worn and I was ready to give up. But my
exercises in PT demanded stamina and discipline and I became convinced I could
work harder, do better. I started walking up and down the stairs at work
between assignments. I kept doing my exercises at home and I added something.
Usually at midnight, after I
arrive home from work and change my clothes and shoes, I stretch a little and
take off out of our long gravel driveway down an old country road, one step at
a time. It’s hard. I’m carrying a bigger load than when I ran in my 20s. I
measure my effort by telephone poles. Straining toward the next one when the
slope gets steep and my gut starts to burn. Sometimes I slow down and walk. I
try not to be hard on myself when this happens. As I push harder, I go further.
My breath breaks through the burden of the wheezing. My day unwinds. I find
clarity about crucial life decisions under a peaceful moon. Crickets chirp. The
wind blows through the cornfields. Endorphins give temporary relief from pain. My
body thanks me and I feed it some good stuff to show my gratitude.
Now it’s like filling up the gas
tank. I know I will run most nights (at least four nights a week). I know I need
it to help me feel good and cope well. It takes very little to motivate myself.
It is not a chore. Most nights, I look forward to it.
I have run away a few times; run
from responsibilities, from things that knocked me off balance. Not this time.
I can’t run from the moon. There’s no barrier from the heavens under the night
sky. I am exposed and delighted. I know that sharing this puts it out there-
that I am committed. I held off on broadcasting my effort; my practice. I
waited until it was a part of me. I hope, in sharing, that you can uncover
something you thought you couldn’t do, or couldn’t do anymore. Just believe
that you can.
