Talk Thursday: The Psychology of Running...

...Demented if you ask me, which you didn’t but there you have it all the same.

Sprint. I ask, "Where is the snake?"

Jog. Have you seen what that does to the gravitational pull of the breast? No, thanks.

Run. By choice? You’re insane.

Marathon. Masochism.

I don’t run, by now you’ve probably figured that out. There was a time once when wanted to run, like the wind, on the beach, fleet of foot. I envied those whom I saw flying across the hard pack sand. I tried it once and ran the mile from the North Jetty to Driftwood Shores and then walked back. It was exhilarating the endorphins must have kicked in fairly fast, because I don’t even remember being winded.

The next morning I wasn’t too sore so I tried to do it again. Had this been in the day of cellphones I might have tried calling 911 it was that terrifying and debilitating. I couldn’t breathe, my leg muscles contorted in agonizing spasms, and I may even have lost consciousness once or twice and that was in the parking lot. On the beach I couldn’t seem to find a rhythm, two left feet plodded - thunk thunk th-thump in the hard pack, or maybe that was my heart pounding in my chest. Whatever. The sea lions heartily laughed in the surf. Sand dabs move faster.

The time has long since past where I’ve acknowledged that once I’m finished with a hobby (sport) – it is for life. I thrived on back packing and hiking all through Girl Scouts. I was the first in our family to water ski. Rollerskating? Remind me to tell you my Roller Derby story sometime. Surfing was a budding passion in high school until we moved to Oregon. I once dreamt of being a dancer and took classes for years. I pumped iron like a religious maniac, six days a week, two hours a day, for several years. I survived parasailing for a whole marriage. Running lasted a whole day and fifty yards. Where’s the psychology in that?

Sith,
Cele