Some runs you grind out. Some runs, every single fucking step hurts. Your lungs scream, your quads scream and your entire body says you can’t, even as you keep running. Some runs you make your mileage and your speed and you hate every single goddam agonizing moment.
Some runs are just runs. Some times you start and you finish and you don’t really even notice you ran. Oh, you think. That was 3 miles? Oh. Well then.
Then there are the other runs. The runs that are spectacular, and yes, I know runner’s is similar to getting high off pot and I’m probably killing brain cells. (You might think I need them. You wouldn’t be wrong there).
That’s not the point. On that high, drenched in sweat, my lungs and muscles screaming, I am in love with my body. I am in love with what it can do. I am the most powerful person in the world. My shadow body running alongside me, highlighted in the sun and I am astonished at what I can do. By what I demand of myself.
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
The instrumental introduction to Hotel California is about a minute long. It always makes me think of a night, almost 20 years ago, spent having sex.
Look, even all those years ago, decades really, I was the crazy one. Nascent, I suppose, but there was an edge to me. I always wanted to push things just a bit further, go a bit harder.
(Maybe we could just turn the lights on?)
I was the crazy one.
I found myself thinking that, thinking of the edge, 3 and a half miles in, legs screaming, listening to the introduction to Hotel California.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave.