I can hear the cadence of my feet on the pavement. Pound. Pound. Pound.
It’s a sound engrained into that weird place of my heart that accepts difficult endeavors as beautiful. It’s a sound I love, my feet falling one behind the other. Pound. Pound. Pound. My heart beats in time.
This is, after all, a love story.
The wind wraps around my body and I breathe in its sublime embrace. It overtakes my senses, and in a moment of reminiscent joy, I’m taken back to the first time I ever met the road with the kiss of my shoes.
That first time, was a haphazard experiment. A pinch of ambition, a pinch of stubbornness, a whole heaping of I have no clue what I’m doing. I was 13, and the fact that I couldn’t finish our school mile was like this giant puzzle. You know the ones? They look so simple but are bewildering in their exhausting pursuit.
So, I set out. One block at a time. And I ran that darn mile in its entirety.
Today, my miles look a little different. They don’t come and go singularly, but rather, in singularity, add one on top of the other like harmonious verses. Those miles move me. They lull me like a love song.
I owe a lot to those miles. There are too many to count now. But, truly, I don’t care to count. Running doesn’t add to my life in numbers but rather in the undulating freedom that ensues when I allow the problems, the daily tasks, time itself to take a backseat to that… Pound. Pound. Pound.
That deep inhale and exhale. That dance of courageous feet.