Running gooder

After more than a year and a half of trying, it seems I’ve finally relearned how to run. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t fun. It was a long plodding mess, devoid of the smoothness, which I once was able to achieve from the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.

Notice I didn’t say quickly; running, I guess, is a matter of perspective.

Anyway, my six-mile route took me through a couple of swanky Wilmington neighborhoods where I wished the Monkees “Pleasant Valley Sunday” were (I wonder if Monkees is a plural?) humming on my IPod. Instead, I was jamming to some Aerosmith, Bad Company, and an old one hit wonder, Andy Pratt and some other hubbub.  

I plodded through the swank and approaching Marsh Road I hung a left, crossed the deadly “Frogger”-type road, ran another 50 meters and crossed back to entrance to the Northern  Delaware Greenway. And his is where it happened.

After struggling for more than two years, the ground began moving under my feet, my breathing less labored, and the objects in my peripheral vision seemed to smooth and pass behind me as if I glided amongst the terrain. I experienced this before in my life, but it was long ago and seemingly far away (If George Lucas will excuse me). Though this didn’t last more than a mile, it was the best mile of mile life.

Admittedly, I’ve run in many more beautiful places. I’ve stood atop a mountain top in Helena MT. with a late spring snow pelting me; and run the switchback up the world’s most crooked road in Grand Junction, Colorado’s National Monument, and trudged up Rattlesnake Hill outside Reno, NV, but those runs, as grueling and as beautiful as they were, never symbolized the victory of spirit and soul the 10 minute stretch along the Greenway did.

I guess that’s it for today. More tomorrow