I’m angry, frustrated and generally pissed off.
Seventy-three days ago I was running 18 miles on the Blue Ridge Parkway and through downtown Asheville. I was free, I was determined and good grief I was strong.
The next day I crashed my bike and put everything on hold.
For ten weeks I’ve canceled my races and set my eyes on new ones, thrown out training plans, watched my friends hit their running goals and practiced my patience knowing that one day I’d be able to run again.
I’m scheduled to be able to start running again in less than two weeks, but honestly I don’t know how I can make it that long. I’ve reached my breaking point.
Running is my stress relief. It’s freedom on my own two legs. I never felt bad after a run. I never felt fat after a run. Running was about goals and taking time for myself and choosing to get out there even when it was too hot, too cold or I was too tired. I ran in the dirt, in the sand, in the snow, in the rain, over mountains and down hills. I knew which day of the week it was by my runs- the whole week culminating to Friday’s long run. I knew it was a new day once I sweat my butt off on the pavement.
Call it a passion. Call it an addiction. I need running.
Why do you run?