After a long work week and several nights with a wakeful toddler who was popping out some premolars, I probably could've used a leisurely Saturday. But it was sunny and in the upper 30s. Perfect for a nice winter run. "I should run," I said, in a noncommittal mumble to myself.
But I was zombie-tired, bored with running, feeling lazy and a honestly a little bit chilled after splashing around in the pool for the kiddo's morning swim lesson. Blah, blah, blah. I was full of excuses usually recited by a fading New Year's resolution exerciser, not by someone who has professed love for a good workout. Then, my husband said the words that make him the greatest coach and teammate of all time: "You should go."
Somehow, that's all it took. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I could drive out to the trail for a change of running scenery. And I might enjoy it. And I might feel more human.
And less than an hour later, I confirmed, yet again, that I'm an endorphin addict. And that running is a serious drug. I mean, how else can you explain my willingness to suit up and actually drive to another location to push my body into a cold wind and over crunchy, week-old icy snow? Or how a This American Life piece about the Brazilian real became the most amazing story ever told because I listened to it while aiming for a negative split? Or how I forgot that the past week had been so exhausting that it brought me to frustrated tears just a couple of days prior? Everything was perfect and wonderful and awesome and great. Life was beautiful!
If you know this feeling, you understand that this isn't hyperbole. Everything suddenly becomes amazing, and you want to love everyone with your whole heart. If you think I sound crazy and simple-minded, then you haven't enjoyed a runner's high. You should really try for it some time. If it can make a tired mama forget a week of sleepless nights, it can cure anything. Running is one hell of a drug. I'm glad that I'm so addicted. I think my family might be, too.
© 2011 GUF
