Yesterday evening, one instance lying there in dejection, when the next, but not two minutes after, I was out and running. And thus I covered about 3.5 miles at a comfortable pace.
I do that once a week these days. Or once every ten days. More frequently than that I dare not.
With the state of my knees 4-4.5 years ago, I was skeptical over the mere prospect of walking in my typical manner again. By that, I mean at any surface or altitude; while running up flights of stares and escalators, an otherwise monotonous affair.
But at that period I struggled with simple planar surfaces. And I’d already not run for nearly 4-5 years over lower back issues that brought the practice to a halt in my late twenties, when I made an inner pact that I’d only reconsider the deed, if and when five-years free of lower-back annoyance.
This opportunity was approaching, precisely when the knee situation arose, causing me to effectively write off the deed as a lost cause (that and the Capoeira training I then pursued).
Now in the last year of my thirties, with years of leg strengthening, back stretching, and core maintenance, I practice these occasional runs, which I resumed only about two years back, then at a frequency of only once or twice a month.
It’s funny that even after eight years of non-running, I could still immediately deliver that three-miler, as if it were akin to a bicycle.
But more often than once a week I dare not. Even with the training and stretching, any of these joints could choose to resign next week, next month, the following year or perhaps a long time from now. But it inevitably will.
I’m programmed to anticipate the eventuality. And at that point I’ll once again retire from running for another one to five years (or permanently).
Meanwhile, each of these once-a-week 3.5-4 mile runs I’ll cherish for whatever possible duration.
And yesterday, upon my return, I engaged in meticulous stretching. Glancing up towards the partially cloudy sky, rays of sun fought through the cracks of the hollow opening, granting the view an ethereal sort of splendour.
The clouds remained still, the winds remained calm. No movement took course until way up high beneath the glare, beneath Elysium, beneath the canopy of Mt. Olympus, I detected the passing of an eagle.
And the sight was splendid, and so was the run, and so was the static stretch in which I remained for that everlasting moment.
Questions, comments? Connect.