Sometimes before I go on a run, I take the laces of my jogging shoes and tie them together in a knot. I wear the pair around my neck with each shoe falling to opposite sides. The heels clunk against my chest as I make my last minute rounds. It’s as if running is my job and the shoes are the instrument I use to perform that job. Eventually, I slip them off my neck, and onto my soul. It’s time to go running.
Today started in much the usual fashion. The first few blocks were rocky, but eventually, I established a pace. A mile in, I turned the corner, and I was on my beloved lakeside path. I could still feel the thumping on my chest. At first, I couldn’t help but smile. I was on the right path, the right journey. I passed fellow runners, and we shared a knowing glance. We were brothers and sisters, comrades in a common goal.
As the miles continued, my joy began to fade. My feet burned, and my knees started to buckle. The sun battered my brow occasionally providing warmth, but often scalding. I passed my normal turning point but kept going. The pain faded and was replaced by a certain fatigue, a weariness. I was still uncomfortable, but I no longer cared.
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