Tired. Tired people. I mean down in the brain kind of tired where cognition is stifled and verbal communication reduced to monosyllables. (Isn’t it amazing that the portion of my brain dedicated to the written word continues to function?) For a while there Thunder the Wonder Dog decided that he needed to be getting up somewhere between 3:30 and 4:45 in the morning. Now, that is usually the time I get up to perform 46 sun salutations before beginning 58 minutes of meditations on the Infant of Prague. A whimpering, yipping seven pound mound of hound would be an annoyance during these rituals, but his carrying on has been particularly annoying since I have been trying to spend more time in silent, closed eye worship to the holy comforter.
Tired I tell you. Dog tired. This hit right about the time I was lacing up my running shoes over at the ol’ Club Dub. (New actually. Or newer than the “M” which has, if you want to know my humble opinion, a sketchy locker room. Not that Club Dub is the Richland Country Club but it is clean and simple and doesn’t have people hanging out watching TV which I just find weird.) I was lacing up my shoes on a different bench because when I came in someone else was using “my” bench. They were not using “my” locker, but the bench was partially taken and there is a much bigger personal space bubble when I drop trow in semi-public. Some maybe somehow the lighting was bad and that’s what made me sleepy.
At any rate, I went out anyway. It was, after all, a gorgeous fall day and people down in Decatur are falling over one another to get up here and drive around looking at trees instead of where they are going. It would be a sin not to run, plus the new bike lanes on Hilliard are a boon to runners. A boon I say! This figment of street paint doesn’t really change where cars can go, but it does make me more comfortable running on the slightly softer asphalt. Plus I get to avoid the jarring ups and downs that come with modern day curb cuts. Out there in the street I was, a somnambulist in all but the most literal sense.
Until it happened. Somewhere between the hospital campus and the lake, my quads went from rubber to steel bands. Each little muscle in my calves started to fire off in synchronization. Great gallons of air began to pour into my lungs as the endorphins and dopamine bathed my cortices. If Saturday’s long run — around 14 or 15 miles — started to help me believe I could finish the upcoming marathon, today’s run reminded me that I am a runner, not just a person who runs. I believe that calls for a donut.