Running Is The Closest Humans Get To Flying

Yesterday I felt like I was flying.

Winter is in fast retreat in the Midwest. The snow is mostly gone, patches of stubborn ice are all that's left. I went for a run on Saturday, around Lake Harriet in South Minneapolis. When I started, my legs were sore. My calves felt tight and I was breathing heavy. I felt old, and had this sense of resignation that this might be the best I could do, these days. After plodding through a mile, I stopped to stretch and enjoy the wind coming over the still-frozen lake. When I started shuffling down the path again, I stopped worrying about my speed (or lack thereof). The soreness in my calves, I realized, reminded me of when I was in high school, heading out with my track team. Instead of slowing down, I pushed against that soreness, enjoying the ache. My lungs stopped tripping over every intake of air, and I started taking deep, refreshing breaths. And then I really pushed it, and for about half a mile, I felt like I was nineteen again, pounding around the lake, full of energy and speed. I slowed down after that half-mile, but was delighted because I knew that I could have kept up the pace, but I also knew that patience is the best route to success, and if I took it easy today I would avoid major muscle damage and I would be better-able to get out and train next week.

When I reached the leeward side of the lake I stopped to walk. The ice was a mixture of white and blue, and there was about six inches of water on top of it. The wind pushed the water into small waves. People were gathered in groups to enjoy the surreal sight, and I heard someone mention how it looked like a scene from a science fiction movie. It felt like a gift, this odd natural phenomena. My head reached a new level of clarity, coming out of its winter fog.

I took a few deep breaths, stretched some more, and jogged home.