There really wasn't a good answer beyond this: Fast or slow, a run, a hike, a ski reminds me that I'm part of a big, interesting world. It seems like my body craves some kind of movement, that sometimes it's the natural state of being. Cooped up with the computer, I forget how great life is. I remember it when I am outside.
I thought of this as I went out for a run yesterday. We were in the throes of a winter storm and the plows had scraped the streets bald to the ice layer. The main streets that is. We take our chances on the side streets; those are rarely touched by a plow. I had forgotten my ice grippers and didn't feel like going back for them, so I beelined for the fail safe option, the tiny park. Only the park was adrift in snow. I floundered in the powder, realizing that my first mile was a blazing 13:56. Would a sane person have gone back? Probably. Instead I decided to take my chances on the lake road. As I descended from the park I saw another runner.
"It's a challenge!" I screamed over the howling wind. She went on anyway, but I looked back and saw her expression of dismay as she plunged ankle deep into the fresh snow.
|The park in freezing fog.|
Why am I doing this? The answer has always been the same.