The lack of text this week owes itself to a terrible thing, although it could have been a more terrible thing. I had a loved one in the hospital with a mysterious creeping crud that stressed me the hell out. The week involved much train riding to and fro, a swath of real estate in my mind occupied with tripping out and panic, and a dearth of running. The run I went on one day was so craptastic, I only made it 1.7 miles and without a "choice" even registering in my head, my legs just stopped. I found myself on Jefferson in the thick of Fisherman's Wharf, enmeshed in throngs of tourists verging on tears for my utter lack of control over almost everything in the universe. Not that I really want to Run the Big Show. Mostly.
I'm happy to report that my loved one was sent home and is well on the way to thriving. I have tossed all the science fiction nightmares away and am back on track with the trek. My last long run lasted for two hours, which I felt pretty good about considering it followed closely on the heels of the 1.7 mile debacle. The long run was strangely satisfying as I felt like my mind stayed gentle. It was so exhausted from its stress, from dreaming up tragic fictions and holding itself in a fist for so many days. Did I mention I also got in a fight with a cab driver who took me to the wrong hospital? I did. As he insisted the mistake was my fault, my blood pressure climbed. At one point I said Like I told you when I got in the cab, I'm on my way to the hospital, so through my destination, you can imagine I'm already having a Very Bad Day. So just stop talking. Be quiet altogether. I rode in silence with the guy while I fumed. I don't often tell my elders to shut the fuck up, essentially. But in this case, I felt ok about it. Anyhoots, back to the run.
I was so worn out, a jogging nub of a girl, endorphins opening up my timid closed terrified heart. Each mile brought me closer to my real fears and feelings, trotting slowly along the water, passing by fellow runners moving gracefully through San Francisco at blistering speeds. Some even in those weird finger running shoes. Me? I kept my pace slow, even for myself. I just focused on my heart unfolding, spring petals after rain, a gingerly look up to the world around me.
It was one of those days where everything seemed like it was made by Hercules. I perceived things in historical contexts, and each time I scanned the pain through my hips and feet, leveling my honest review of it to check whether I should continue toward the day's goal of two hours, I looked around. I let my eyes trace the outlines of buildings thinking, God, someone invented the crane. People figured out how to carve details and hoist beauty into a city skyline of stone moldings. I thought about the resilience of will, the goddamn Wright Brothers. They were so in love with an impossible idea. It had to be impossible, right? But they didn't just brush off naysayers, they brushed off the laws of Physics. Can you imagine the balls or the insanity it takes to say,
Gravity? Eh fuck it. Fuck Gravity. We're going to fly.
I thought about them and I laughed right out loud.