Makes Me Happy

I asked—rhetorically perhaps?—in my previous post what it is that makes me happy. I asked this question at least somewhat because I have not been particularly happy of late. I attribute these low spirits (this wreath of miasma?) to a confluence of circumstances, circumstances I will not discuss herein.

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I don't have any "solution" to my life as it stands or, rather, as it sits—you all can probably guess how much time I spend in front of my laptop. But, regardless, I do know one bit that makes me happy, however rhetorical the original question.

I run.

It's really simple and despite this simplicity I literally forget sometimes that running makes me happy. Two and a half years ago I joked that I should get a tattoo reminder to run. I revisit this "joke" with reasonable frequency and I have to admit the notion has gained some merit. (As for the form or exact message of the tattoo, I will presently stay silent.)

Don't get me wrong—I love my family and my friends, I love Ultimate, I love eating and reading and music, and I do quite enjoy some aspects of my work. Still, I run alone, more alone perhaps than I find myself anywhere else in life. The motion and act are pure, independent of anyone but still irrevocably connected to my world. I run in rain and cold and sun and wind. I run on perfect Seattle days, like today, with weather so good I want to yell and exult and smile and greet every person I pass.

Today. I came down the first leg of Lake Washington Boulevard and was greeted by the aforementioned lake shrouded in fog so thick the other was side was actually invisible. The fog burned and lifted as I wound down the shore, feeling strong and free. I dreaded the turnaround a bit, the acceptance that I would have to stop running. I always take the halfway turn a bit slow and relish the point I've reached—today with a hazy Mount Rainier far off to the south.

But I turn and accelerate all the same. I think about the finish, and I think about why I'm running and my next run and how I'm getting faster. I think about the Seattle Half-Marathon in two weeks and I think about training to break a 5-minute mile this winter. I think about the next day, and on, and on.

Last week I ran an excruciating 12 miles after work on Monday, without enough sleep the night before or hydration during the day, and in the dark and cold besides. I struggled through the last mile, nearly all uphill, and arrived exhausted at my home. And I cried. I cried, out on the sidewalk in front of my apartment, because I was tired and felt sick, not just from the run but from every little bit that grates and weighs. But I also cried in satisfaction and happiness: I finished, and I would do it again. And then I didn't move for four hours.

Today. I ran 13.5 miles on the same route as last Monday but in the sun and breeze. I was fed and watered and rested well. I was happy at the start and finish and all throughout, enjoying the lake and killing the pavement and passing people and, as always, singing Beastie Boys in my head. Let's be clear: that last mile uphill still sucked. But, I stepped back in my apartment after the run and just started screaming in triumph.

Wait, what was the question?