Running

This morning, I slammed my hand on my alarm and rolled out of bed. Still half asleep, I pulled on nylon shorts and an Old Navy t-shirt. I brushed my hair back into a ponytail and located my MP3 player. Meeting Lauren downstairs—we were the only two awake in a still, cool, dim house—I pulled socks on, shoved my feet into shoes, and tied them. Together we stretched in kneeling, upside-down, and I’m-just-about-to-fall positions. Then the long walk down the driveway in the already-hot air. We placed earbuds to ears, carefully aligned our feet with the mailbox—our start and finish line—and with eyes on her watch, Lauren gave the countdown: 3…2…1…GO!
And so I run, reminded again on this beautiful morning of why I run. With my legs moving automatically, and my breathing coming steadily, I feel the hymn “This is My Father’s World” rising in my soul. I am on a mountaintop, and life is good.
Halfway! I turn around, prepared to rerun what I just ran. The rest of the way stretches out before me, because I can unfortunately visualize every inch of the familiar road. What lies ahead is a battle with no room for complacency. My calves are burning, and my lungs seem to have suddenly shrunk like a wool sweater in the dryer. I have a mind game to deal with as taxing as any chess match, debate session, or persuasive essay. It is me—my spirit, soul, mind, and will—against me—my flesh!
Soon, I have managed to eat up the distance until I reach the neighbor’s house that stands in for the ¼-mile marker. A quarter of a mile left. And all uphill. With the sun out and shining cheerfully. This fight is grueling as I push every step of the way. I am fighting gravity, resistance, friction, and myself. I am stretching out my legs, opening my mouth, panting, and craning my neck to the sky. I am on fire, with sweat streaming down my body, and my mouth tasting like blood. I am running…running…running…for my home: the prize! Are you?