Stirring Point

Each step allows the runner to shed some of yesterday’s skin. Muscles burn and joints ache, but the mind is at ease. There’s nothing to do but move forward, marrying the patter of steps with the panting of breath. At first, the two are awkward together, like nervous freshmen at a high school dance. Rhythm eludes the feet and the union feels tortured. But eventually, they find each other—a pattern, a tempo—and soon they seem inseparable.

On hard days, running can feel like monotonous torture. Veins pump as if they’re filled with lead. Heart rates spike and the lungs gasp for oxygen. Plodding hypnosis hops in the driver’s seat and all joy evacuates the vehicle.

But a trained body craves the effort and lusts for the endorphins. The act feels primal, and like a filly bucking a gate, muscles scream to express their coding. Movement is a must—an inseparable act of human history. We ran to evade predators. We ran to capture prey.

From the corner of the room, shoes beckon or taunt the runner—a reminder of her duty for the day. At times, the runner averts her eyes toward easier dealings, treating her sneakers like the gaze of a hungry beggar. And on her good days, her eyes promise the shoes a spirited session. Like an obedient dog, the shoes wait by the door on standby. They belong outside, exploring every nugget of freedom.

Yet the mind and its slippery pool of illusions attempt to poison future efforts. It blasts a narrative of futility directly into the runner’s ear. “Why try, you slob? What difference will it make?” It craves the path of least resistance and attempts to beat the body into submission. Even when the runner has laced up her shoes, stepped out the door and started her trot, the mind casts doubt like a serpent in Eden. “Why are you wasting your time?” The runner moves forward, but her legs feel like they’re blocked in concrete. Defeat feels all but guaranteed. 

With enough time and mileage, the runner learns to welcome the serpent. And when the legs feel fresh, the heart rate balanced, and the breathing regulated, the runner grabs the sneaky bastard and stares into its beady eyes. “Not today, friend,” she says. “Not today.”

The runner never seeks pain but accepts its arrival and learns how to use it. Pain offers her a crossroads; it shows the runner a shortcut home and promises a “well-deserved” reprieve. And as she approaches the crossroads, distorted calculations swirl in her distressed mind. The math bends in favor of comfort and doubts flood her thinking. But she knows that trading in today’s pain for tomorrow’s shame will eventually metastasize into something vile and dangerous. So, the runner lifts her eyes, digs her toes into the gravel and picks up speed. She’s made her decision for the day. Spittle coats the edges of her lips. Salty sweat drips from her brow into the corner of her eye. Her lungs burn and her hamstrings tug. No matter, though. She’s built for this moment. It fuels her. When she crosses the threshold at home, she stands before her mirror and feels flush with courage. These miles are the foundational bricks of her tenacity and durability. Tomorrow, she’ll shed some of today’s skin. Tomorrow, she’ll be even stronger.