Friday, March 20, 2015

Where the Streets Have No Name

I got out of the car on Wednesday and brushed my hand against the inside of my right knee.  I felt pain.  I thought, this is odd.  Upon inspection, it was swollen.  Not sure what caused it.  Perhaps it was running more than I've ever run in my life.

That night I was supposed to do a quality workout.  In the words of the LAPD, in relation to the U2 video for the Where the Streets Have No Name "we're shutting the location down.  There is no vote.   It happens now."

I shut it down.  I put the horse back in the barn.  I've been icing the knee ever since.  Not sure what happened.  Just know it be super silly to run and injure myself such that Boston was a no-go.  Didn't run Wednesday, Thursday or Friday.  Prior to that, I was burned.  The torch had been lit and devoured my soul.  Running was drudgery, a chore.

That's the problem about getting serious.  I walk that fine line between fun and work.  I don't want running to feel like a job.  I want to run for fun.  Finish times are nice. But that's not the point.  It's the process.  It's the sweat running down my skin.  It's pushing my body.  It's trying to be sixteen again.

Three days no run.  Now I'm a caged animal.  I want to explode.  My fitness has never been greater. I run my hands across my legs and feel the veins.  I find muscles I've never had.  43, and in the best shape of my life.

Running tomorrow.  Writing now.  Funny the juxtaposition.  More I run, the less I write.  Less I run, the more I write.


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