After posting up one of my slower 10k's in recent memory, I get the feeling that I'm supposed to be coming to some kind of realization. All of my races recently have been quite a bit slower than the last several years, for various reasons.
Recovery from the Alabama Relief Run, a lack of recent training, a lack of motivation to train hard, and inconsistency could all be cited as reasons for my sub-par performances of late.
Perhaps this should be indicative of something that would lead me to some catharsis.
But then I come to the realization that in the face of all of it, I don't care.
I don't care that I'm slow(er) for the moment. I hope to get a bit faster, but that's not a prerequisite for my continued running.
I don't care that I don't particularly feel the obligation to put in 100+ mile weeks. I'd like to get to that level again at some point, but the desire to do so must come about naturally.
I don't care that I miss a couple days a week of running when life (real life, not to be confused with running life or work life) happens. I look forward to the days when I'm back to clockwork consistency, but it will come in due time.
I run because I enjoy it. I run when it's hot. I run when it's cold. I run when people say I shouldn't. I even run when it's a stretch to use the term itself.
Is that a realization?
I think it's something we all have known all along.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
On my drive into work, I pass Wilson Morgan Park, which has a 1.5-mile cinder path around its periphery. This time of year, when the weather is most cooperative, quite a few people tend to be out walking the path in the mornings before the day warms up.
Over the past several days, I've been noticing that, almost without exception, they all look very intently miserable. They are walking with a purpose, arms churning mechanically, eyes fixed either on some distant horizon or at their own feet (rarely anywhere in between), scowls firmly affixed on their faces. Truth be told, I can't help but be jealous; I would infinitely rather be out running in the cool sixty-something degree temps than on my way to the office.
However, after thinking on this recurring observation, I can't help but wonder if, when we're out running, do we look like this? Do I look like this? If someone saw us out running, would they assume that we hated what we were doing?