I have been fighting a cold the last few days. I haven't been able to train at all. In fact, even walking to work has felt like a struggle on a couple of occasions. As my mood deteriorated in step with every sunny day wasted lying on the sofa building a tissue pyramid on the coffee table that would turn Egyptians green with envy, I started feeling resentment towards running. Why does it treat me this way, causing me several injuries per year, when I love it so much? I am sick of its antics, its blatant disregard for my well-being! Surely, if I had any self respect I'd kick it out the door and change the locks.
Then, this morning, I spent my break at work reading an article in the latest ”Turist” magazine about running in the mountains. I remembered the sense of wonder and awe I felt while running in Hemavan, rolling down the Kungsleden trail, surrounded by nothing but majestic snow-clad mountain tops and the absence of time. I thought about my running friend N, with whom I've been planning a running holiday in the mountains this summer. My heart started waking up from the deep slumber it's been in the last few weeks and wrote running a love poem.
When I got home, I put on my VFF for the first time in 2-3 months. I ran with the wind on my back, under a spring sun, aiming to get as much mud on my shoes as possible. Just before I got home after this short run, a cloud directly over my head started dusting minuscule snowflakes all around me, at the same time as the sun warmed my face.
Running, I know we've had some hard times. Things haven't always been easy between us. But I still love you.