A Writer's Stride

For years I had dismissed running, mostly I’ll admit now, because I’m lazy.   Who wants to run when you can sleep an extra hour? I made a lot of excuses.  I can’t find a good sports bra.  I have bad knees.  I don’t have time.  Then, in October, my husband ran his first 5k.  Watching him, a man whose favorite exercise was walking to the fridge to get a beer and back to the computer for another match, complete his first 5k was pretty damn inspiring.  As he crossed the finish line, I vowed the next time, I would be by his side.

So, I started running.  Now I love it.  I couldn’t imagine my life without it.  Especially because of my writing.  There is something magical that happens on a run.  My mind unknots, and my muse is allowed to play.  Working the body is as important as working the mind.  At least for me it is.  After a run, I come to the computer refreshed with plot issues resolved.

This summer, however, is kicking my ass.  Texas heat is NOT something you willingly run in.  At least, I don’t.  If I’m not up and out by six A.M., forget it.  I have tried to run on the treadmill.  I hate it.  I can run two and a half miles with ease on the road, but in the gym, I peter out at a mile.  No amount of creative visualization helps. 

Yet, runners are still everywhere.  And aside from the occasional hot-bodied shirtless runner, I never paid much attention to them.  That is, until I started running.  Now, I find myself looking at people’s strides.  I know every runner who lives in my neighborhood.  Not personally, mind you, but after months of running and waving as you pass them, you develop a certain respect and an unspoken camaraderie.

 

There is one guy in particular that is the most dedicated runner I have ever seen in my life.  He isn’t pretty to look at. He does not stride like a gazelle on the Savanna.  In fact, I am always afraid he is going to trip over his own large feet.  Sweat is always pouring down his face, even in winter.  And I admire this guy tremendously.  Why?  Because rain, shine, cold, or hot, this guy is running.  He is running everyday at two in the afternoon.  That’s right.  July in Texas 100+ degrees, and this guy is out running at the hottest point in the day.  At first, I just thought he was one stupid SOB.  You could not pay me enough money to run at that time of day.  Not in Texas. 

But on Monday, as I crawled out of bed sniffling with the remnants of a summer cold and sat at my computer, I thought of my loping runnerman.  I didn’t want to write.  I wanted to go straight back to bed and snuggle under the covers.  But my sweaty runnerman, wouldn’t do that.  He would get out at the hottest point of the day and run. 

It takes dedication.  It takes balls of steel.  It takes a bit of stupidity.

He made me realize something.  Something I already knew but hadn’t pieced together. Writing, running, it’s all the same.  To succeed in either, it takes commitment.  

I used to only write when my illustrious muse demanded it.  That was before I wrote my novel.  If I had waited on that girl to get it together, I would have never finished my book.  She is far too fickle.  I have to give her some rules.  She still argues with me, but I write.  Every day.  Come rain or shine.  I have to keep up my writer’s stride.  Keep my girl in practice.  Improve her pace.  Build up her endurance.  Because I am in this for the long haul.