Liberation
When even the idea of a run feels impossible.
It goes like that sometimes. You spend the day working from home and when the time finally comes when you can get out for a run, you feel so tired, cold and stiff, the idea of ever having been able to so much as jog feels impossible. You’re craggy and crabby off the back of a delayed National Express bus home from London the night before, and you’ve been sedentary ever since. You message him, expressing that you’re generally not feeling great. “Do you need to get out for a run?” He says.
“I’ll try.”
You’ll always try. There is always the option to stop and turn around, to walk, to just take it as a gentle jog. The sun is bright and powerful but you put on a long-sleeved top - your hands, feet and nose are struggling to believe they will ever warm up. You step out. Yes, you will try.
You shuffle into the jog. It doesn’t have to be any more than that. You believe you will do the shorter route, rather than the route you had planned the day before, the one that goes up through the wood and the wild garlic. No, that would be impossible. It’s just good to be out and shaking off the day, the perceived slights on emails and the frustrations that only come from shoulders slumped over a laptop.
After about 15 minutes, you finally start to warm up. The weight of the day is still clouding your ears and vision, but you reach out to run your hand through the vibrant, long, soft leaves of the wild garlic to try to snap your brain into this other place. Yes, the leaves feel even softer than expected. You take the longer route before you even realise you’ve turned right and started coursing downhill.
The body kicks into its own gear. Without meaning to, you find yourself running all of the uphills on this route instead of carefully hiking them. Where is that tired, fractious version of yourself now? Where is she, now you’re nimbly hopping over roots, keeping your footwork tight and as economical as you can. Practice, training, instinct. Discipline, liberation.
Then you’re up high, and you’re greeted by the big views of the valleys in the late afternoon light. You don’t actually often see it like this - the sun is on the other side in the morning - but now, it is setting over the distant city. For the thousandth time, you feel so lucky to be here. Homesick for here. This, all of this, is what you crave when you’re away.
A little of the drabness of the day still lingers, so you take the final hill at a sprint, promising that by the time you’re at the top, you’ll have flushed it all out and will think no more about it. You cross your own finish line and try to keep jogging but your arms and legs are jelly, there is no space for other thought, even if you wanted to. Farewell, day, and good evening.
The jog home. An hour has passed, the whole run will be over soon. It usually takes an hour to feel different like this. To reassess what matters, to realise the world is not against you, to remember what your priorities are. To remember that none of it matters. Only this, and to always try. You cannot ever fail so long as you keep trying.
