There are long stretches when I run that feel like meditation, or at least there are minutes of calm that get strung along as my feet beat a rhythm into the trail. I find this so addictive, this quieting of my full mind, that brings me back to running again and again.
If you had told me three years ago those words would ever apply to me I would have had a good long laugh. Three years ago I weighed 222 pounds and told anyone who'd listen that I would never run. I was active and healthy and happy and fat, and I would never be a runner. I knew this like I knew I'd never be a man. And yet...
Today, on one of my rare nods to my half-marathon training, I was in this blissed out state on an 8 mile run when I decided, on a whim, to take a finger trail I've always run past in favor for the trail I know. Before today, each time I sail past it, I've thought I'm gonna take that someday. Today, I just didn't have an excuse not to. No work to get to, or friend to hang out with, so to the left I went. My heart began beating a bit faster and anxiety rose up in my throat, as my body anticipated something new and unknown. Quickly, like the new and unknown always does to me, the nervousness slid into thrill.
There's something so alluring about adventure, even a little one like this, and I glanced around, taking in the redwoods and maples and oaks sifting sunlight like sugar on a cake that I'd never run past, the soft, green fern fingers that had never tickled my calves, the poison oak vines with their ominous jaggeded-edged leaves jumped over for the first time, the pebbles that had never scurried away under my footfalls, and I felt taken in by it all. The whole trail saying, "Hello, there, new runner! We're glad to have you here."
A few minutes later, I had a choice of three trails to continue on and all were basically the same size, and seemed to go in the same general direction, away from where I wanted to go. Uh-oh. Maybe I should have just stuck to what I know. I groaned audibly with that thought. How many times have we all had this thought? How much time have I spent in regret and wishing I could go back and make the right decision, the one that wouldn't waste time or divert me from where I thought it was I wanted to go. Why do I so often doubt that taking a risk is worth it and why do I suspect I've fucked up at the first sign of not knowing for sure?
I could have doubled back and returned to my well-trodden path. I could have, but I so resented my insecure self dominating the unsureness of the moment that I rebelled, and headed off on the trail closest to my general destination with a deep inhale and a rush of faith. I repeated this being lost and finding my way scene two more times before rounding a hill and seeing the Westside of campus, where my new home holds watch on the southern edge, each time with less worry and more assuredness.
And isn't this how it always is when we're finding our way? For every risk I've taken -- moving to Mexico without a job, friends, or a place to live, traveling without more than a list of places I'd like to visit, the LONG process of giving up atheist-infused agnosticism for a god I now treasure, taking voice lessons in order to prepare for soloing with my choir, letting Thomas move in a few weeks after we started a relationship (which didn't work out the way I thought I wanted, but the way I needed), losing 70 plus pounds -- there has been those "What the hell did I do?" moments, followed by achy indecision and thoughts of imminent failure, all eventually eased and the moment of triumph resurrected by taking the next step, by just deciding this WILL work and I don't need to know HOW.
And all I meant to do was get in a long run so I could say I'm prepping for my half marathon.
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