Run away, run away, I will follow.

Yesterday, after a day of feeling 82.5% (as opposed to 42.8% on Thursday), I decided to go for my first run in almost a month.

I slept until 10 (well, actually, until my phone started buzzing with a text from the mighty mighty eJnan around 10:15am) and moseyed on into the living room to watch my magnificent television. I was feeling extravagant, so I ordered a $3.99 film from OnDemand. Oh the luxury! Oh the pleasant expenditure! On the recommendation of Jen and Zack Odum, the coolest folks in Lawrenceville, I ordered Michael Bay's The Island. Not a bad sci-fi / action flick, actually. You'll note that the / is more than a composition device; the "/" is, in fact, a representation of the dual nature of the film itself, in that, The Island is almost two films in one. First, a minimalist Brave New World-type of biological horror mixed with a sprinkling of Athem-esqu dialogue and empty-shell femaleness; then, the film morphs into a frantic fireball-car-chase-helicopter-fire-building-smashing action flick. It's basically what one might term, "a grand old time": not the most brilliant or original screenplay or dialogue, but at least the SF sections are approaching thoughtful, even if the underlying terrors are a bit tired and some of the neuroscientific explanations tenous, at best. I loved that the official term for the "products." The cloned humans are "agnates," a term that signifies a genetic descent only in the patrilineal sense, i.e., a genetic history only traceable on the paternal side. Thus, all of the "products" are "Sons of Adam," or, as the Sean Bean character would no doubt prefer, "Sons of god" (note the little "g," because he has a little soul...[grin]).

I did not, however, begin this post intending to compose a critical review of Michael Bay's success, or, as the case may be, lack thereof. (Although, on a final note, I will say that Ewan McGregor was wonderful, and, of course, beautiful - cállate, Mateo! I know your response, little brother!) Oddly enough, one of the most inspirational points of the film was the amount of actual running that Ewan and Scarlett Johansson did during their escape from the bunker. I kept thinking, "Wow. They're totally going to get away because they are marathon runners or something. I can do that if I get out there and start again." And I started plotting and planning my return to my running routine (how about that alliteration!), considering 5k's to run and half-marathons for which to train. My knee is feeling like its old self again and I felt far more healthy than I did the day before, what with the falling-down sick at rehearsal and all, and I decided that TODAY WAS THE DAY.

So, with just a little over an hour before I had to start getting ready for Henry IV rehearsal, (pics, too!)I donned my running gear, drank a bit of water, and headed out the door.

During the 5 minute warm-up walk to the apartment complex entrance, I was already beginning to feel the twinges of excitement to be back out. It was 60 degrees and sunny, but the sun was beginning to descend behind the tree ridge to the west, so the light on the trees had a faint golden cast. I skipped a few times, in exuberant anticipation, and, when I reached the starting place, I grinned and laughed. Really. Out loud and everything. I knew that I had to go easy on the knee, despite the lack of pain for the past week, so I kept myself at a 10min mile pace (so slow), and decided only to run about 30-40 min, or 3.5 miles (approx). It was an unexpectedly glorious expedition.

My legs were stiff and tired from disuse, for, even though only a few weeks have passed since my last run, those days have been spent sitting at a computer or driving my car, not walking as much as I should. My breathing was easy, at first, and even though it became more difficult later, I never lost my rhythm or my breath. I think that I smiled the entire time.

As I rounded the curve past the recreation fields, near the Ramsey Center at UGA, I looked up at the darkening sky. The shadows beneath the trees were creeping towards the pathway. Their darkness was not menacing or cold; rather, it seemed to me that these shadows were markers of the rising tide of evening. Move more quickly, they indicated, before night comes and your footfalls must be more wary. Move more quickly now, and revel in the fading afternoon air and light and song. Strange thing - this was the noisiest run I have ever experienced. The rushing cars, shouts on the fields, my heart pumping, wind in the trees, and on - - - like a moving song, a dancing hum to keep me in this place of joyful movment.

I sprinted the last 1/8 of a mile, up the hill on Milledge Avenue.

A doctor or sports trainer might tell me that the exhilaration I felt, turning into the apartment complex, still running, still grinning, was nothing more than a rush of endorphins, adrenaline, and opiates. They would argue that the chemicals my body produces to manage pain and exhaustion generate this sense of elation. I don't know the total veracity of this position, since it eradicates the emotional spirit of a such an endeavor, rendering the accomplishment less worthy. I mean, part of the pleasure is in the stuggle and the surmounting of it; the triumph is in the defeat of defeat. If that makes sense.

I felt, in those last minutes, a powerful euphoria, so much that it almost, finally, took my breath. I thanked God in those minutes, for giving me legs to run and a world to see and a joy so bright it hurt my heart to bear it. I laughed, again, out loud. I cheered, I jumped, I punched the air.

Yeah! I'm running again! Now for more. Watch for me on Milledge and East Campus...you might miss me, as a I race by and leave you in my dust.

Rock on!

-k