Saturday, June 20, 2009
I am tired.
At 53, I am not as fresh as I used to be.
My breathing is heavier. My lungs burn faster than they used to. My heart reaches maximum beat rate earlier.
My legs don't hurt, though. They don't feel rubbery. They just churn, perhaps by instinct, and so I keep on running.
Each running day I ask myself why I still need to do this thing. And yet each day I let my legs just carry me to another 30 minutes, another hour of body battering. Never mind the absence of an answer to my question. Never mind the lingering doubt if I can do this yet again.
In the coldness of the breaking dawn I sweat. In the solitude of my run I find my space, my peace, my self.
I am a runner, and a runner I will always be.