If I’m being honest, even I don’t quite understand it. For some deep-seated reason, I choose to go out and run long distances, mostly to prove to myself the ability to do the damn thing. It leaves me physically tired, mildly beaten, calloused, chafed, and smelly. It takes time from my schedule and my family. It takes an ongoing influx of gear in a whirling array of experiments. My mind dances between various options of protecting my very person from the relentless pounding of the roads.
Running creates a silence in my brain. A space within my soul. Yes, I work out the snarls of life in those reclusive miles. To borrow a quote, we knock on the sky and listen to the sound. I rock out. I look in.
I’m not sure that there will ever be a day where the act of lacing up my shoes and hitting the road doesn’t take a sheer force of will. But that’s okay too. In those spaces, I’m teaching myself discipline, follow-through, and above all, a belief that I can do hard things.
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