we were runners

gretaanagramsgreat's sideblog on running 

[gretaruns]

why now?

At some point, you’re going to say, this is it. I can’t go on any further. I’ll stop after this lap. Little do you know, you didn’t just stop running.

Do you remember the previous training? How well you did? How the air felt anew against your coarse lungs? How the ground scratched the soles of your shoes? How the wind swept your hair up in it’s wake? Remember how good you felt after that run? That rush of ecstasy?

Are you really going to give that up now? Are you seriously going to just stop? Do you, honestly, think this is worth it? You don’t know it right now, but you’re going to feel like utter shit later on. When you see your other friends grin as they finish their set, your heart is going to sink. You’ll go home looking out the window of the bus thinking about what a terrible runner you are. You’re going to go for the next training with the notion that you can just stop whenever you want, and make up for it the next day. Rise and shine, it won’t happen.

Your instant relief is not worth the wasting of training for the next week. Sure, your legs will sigh in relief, your chest will sing in relaxation. But do you know what you’re putting yourself through later on? Do you know how incredibly selfish you’re being to your future self? Because I do. I’ve spent a whole freshman year walking in the trail and skipping Mondays. I have gone to McDonald’s when I should’ve been hitting the hills, should’ve been racing alongside my teammates when I was napping. I know failure extremely well. I’ve courted the demons inside.

You may not be that extreme. You may be taking an easy run today. I’ll make up for it next run. Don’t do that yourself. Think, does my leg really hurt that much? Do I really feel like dying? Are my breaths really that spastic? Most of all, if my ‘disturbance’ wasn’t here, would I be able to still complete the run?

Your leg hurts? Trust me, your leg feels much better than the runner in front of you, beating repeatedly against the tartan track, or the person behind you, who you’re letting pass you without putting up a fight. Your breathing is constricted? Breathe slower, regulate your oxygen. This is not a sprint, stop fighting for carbon dioxide.

Do you remember what you said to yourself before you got on the track just minutes ago? You said, I’m going to do it this time, I’m going to conquer my doubts, I’m going to prove the track wrong. Are you going to let your past and future selves hate you for your split second, monster decision? Is your temporary relief that worth it? Don’t lie to yourself, you can do this.

If you think training’s hard; try losing. 

[gretaruns]

what i think about when i think about running

I think about the velvet grass, I think about the tartan track, blood red in the evening sun and garishly white under the refraction of my sweat.

I think about the team, a conflated mass of sweat and fire and tears. The blood does not come if you do not think about it. Pain is no longer pain. I think about the dry cotton mouths and the white spit sizzling on the burning polyurethane, the ponytail sifting through the gale of wind and weaving through the slightly tan shoulders, beating methodically against the neck.

I think about the knees, lap one like a foal learning to walk. Lap two, buckling ever so slightly. Lap three, and the tendons have loosened, the bones have polished under the pressure and hellfire leaks through your muscles. Your calves are unstoppable at this point. You are the monster of this red oval. The ground calls out your name but you can’t seem to hear anything but your steady heartbeat thrumming against your sternum like a withering flame.

I think about the sweat, the single bead that represents your spirit, trickle past the shell of your ear, and down your jaw. Sweat is the elixir of the track. Some collects above your lip and it tastes like salt, but it’s so much more. It’s so much more. It’s laps and intervals and how you can say fartlek without snickering - okay, maybe you still do.

I think about how the song that was stuck in your head during the warm up has long since disappeared, and the melody of unruly panting coupled with the upbeat footsteps and the voice that has entwined itself around your head. It’s squid tentacles clinging on your thoughts and screaming at you. It is an angry child and you are the royal highness of this running board. You are not obliged to listen.

I think about how your quadriceps burn and your elbows ache and your brow is the analogy of the Niagara Falls, and you can feel that familiar warmth climb its way up your shoulders to your neck, along the smooth curve of your throat to your head, and the flush weighs your head down, but it’s a pleasant burn. It is the burn of the blood pulsating wildfire in your veins, of your lungs straining from your body and your chest heaving with pleasure. Your feet have never fit these shoes so well before, you notice. You glance down at your companions, to the instruments who have known more death than Napoleon’s sword.

Sometimes it ends all too soon. Sometimes, the euphoria slips back into the astro, and there is a rock mass pressing into your airway and your heave for a bottle of water, for your towel and banana. Sometimes, you close your eyes and try to remember what it’s like to be on the track, to attempt to replicate the drowning liberation and sore numbness; but you find out sooner or later that only the pirates will ever know what it was like to sail the rift.

In the moment of your back pressed into the blinding hot ground, you have known no greater ache.

[gretaruns]

this needs to be everyone’s pre race anthem