The other morning while cleaning the counters of the kitchen after a robust breakfast, I surmised that I needed to go running so that I would have something to write about. Honestly, I hardly lack for topics to write about. This was a case of needing to run so I could write about running. What I mean is, I find that I truly enjoy chronicling a barefoot run. I savor the emotions, perceptions, reactions, and impressions of a barefoot run and delight in identifying them in print.
Take this morning’s run on the treadmill, for instance: I could go straight to the point by telling you that I ran 3.25 miles barefoot. Or, I can magnify the story by disclosing to you that I toiled during the first quarter of a mile. I wanted to relent to the inner slug. Every nerve and muscle thwarted the command to put one barefoot in front of the other on that circulating belt. I was even trying to dupe myself into walking.
Or, I could declare that in the second quarter of a mile, the world got brighter. (After all, it was just pass 6 am) It felt like I had cleared the cobwebs from every nook and cranny of my lungs. The arduous run had emerged as a mere jaunt across a textured belt. Not only did I relish in putting one barefoot in front of the other, I dared to run faster.
I might relate to you that I found provocation in the poor reflection in the cheap glass of the window across from me. Multiple reflections overlapped to cast a woman with a narrow hip line running on a treadmill. Seeing that reflection made me feel as though I was looking into the future. My future. That I could believe in narrow reflections, if I just kept running toward them.
It’s plausible that I would confess that a barefoot run is important but making sure I can run barefoot tomorrow is even more important. My bursitis hip kept silent for 2.5 miles. Running comfortably when your hips ache most of the day is a miraculous thing. Even if that miracle comes to an end before the run does. Slowly, slightly, the ache intruded on my run. I played it safe by walking for the sake of tomorrow’s barefoot run.
Next, I’d brag about the soaked hair, crotch stain, and heavy dose of endorphins. How I floated into the house dealing with cantankerous kids with a brilliance that would dim the leading ostentatious Christmas light display.
Finally, I should end by saying that the treadmill isn’t my favorite run but a girl has to look for the silver lining under her bare feet. After all, I’ve been running barefoot for two years as of November. It was the treadmill that gave me the courage to convert.