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Wednesday, March 19, 2014

| on running |

I'm no marathoner by any means and I'm not quite sure I've experienced a runner's high, pained through shin splints, or ever recorded a six minute mile, but I do love running. It feels good. Really good. I'm not fast and I probably don't look pretty when I'm doing it, but hitting the pavement in my sneakers (that are admittedly at least one size too big) with my headphones is somethin' for the books blog. 

No one ever taught me how to run -- if I should breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth or vice versa, swing my arms or keep my elbows close to my body, look straight ahead or down at the ground. I just do it. Some runs are good, some not so much. [Life, you seem to follow this pattern with most everything else I feel for.] 

I'm attracted to the sport because I can do it by myself, its (mostly) free, and it challenges my sense-of-direction, forcing me to explore the outside world in greater perimeter than my walk from the front door to the bus stop, to work, and back. 

Hopefully running is something I can do for most of my life. My mom was a runner and I vividly remember trailing behind her gracefulness on my bike every weekend. I remember thinking she was 'super-mom' in her periwinkle shorts (they had built-in underwear, too). One day, I will too. 

"Love the air, love the sun, loathe the treadmill." - Francesca Saunders on How To Become A Runner

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