Running by bowers

kay so, I decided to put up the piece Running by bowers, largely because, although I am not a runner, I've always wanted to be in a vague, wistful sort of way. I've always been jealous of that ability to 'leave it on the track' as the cross country boys say, something I never managed to do while swimming, though our team's mantra tenth grade year was 'leave it in the pool'. So here's to the part of me that wishes I knew how to run.

Running

My feet pound heavily on the ground as I tear down the road; the only sound is the slow rhythmic breathing, my lungs and heart exploding in my chest with every stride.

I guess it’s my way of dealing with things. Whenever I’m scared, angry, frustrated, desperate, lonely, confused, I run.

It’s only when I’m out there, wind in my face feet ripping up the road, lungs begging for more, is when things become clear. Somehow I'm able to think by not thinking at all, concentrate on the road, the track, the mud, round the corner, over the hill, under the bridge, and sure enough everything else falls into place.

And when I’m finished, doubled over with exhaustion and pain, sweat dripping from every pore, muscles screaming for relief, my reward is a cold shower.

And whatever the problem was, the frustration, the desperation, confusion has dissolved as it where the road beneath my feet.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been for a run.
I could sure go for one right now.