Progress isn’t Linear
My run this morning was conducted in the hot sun, with the voluminous birth of spring gnats swarming my sweat beads, and I was aware of each step I took. My breathing seemed to be grasping at straws, finding it hard to draw in a deep breath. At each step, I could feel my calf muscles tightening and restricting, even though I had done my stretches. I don’t think the experts know what they’re talking about; stretching doesn’t work. Why would they lie to me like that?
The day started decently brisk, so I opted for bicycle shorts with a black sweatshirt. I tied my hair up into a braided ponytail, a hairstyle I used to call a d*ke braid when I was in high school. I was a very ignorant young individual. If only I could tell that brat now, be careful, you’re going to grow up to be one of those d*kes.
No matter how many days I go sweating profusely in sweatshirts, I always forget that the sun is a mile closer than I’m used to. I was hitting the pavement hard, trying to push and push the minutes by, sweat rolling down my nose, into my ass crack, and pooling under my bra line. Maybe one of these days I’ll learn to wear a T-shirt and, heaven forbid, just have chilly arms for a few minutes.
Spring is my favorite season; I love the sprouting foliage and the bird songs that linger on late into the evenings. However, I know one thing I hate about spring. The fucking bugs. I suspect some kind of scientific fact behind this, because I swear bugs are drawn to me. I’ve been stung by bees, hornets, and too many wasps to count. Gnats love to fly around my ears, making me irrationally angry, a trait I learned from my dad. Bugs don’t need to be flying by your ears, and it’s normal to freak the fuck out when they do. Mosquitos are also drawn to my sweet skin. Every summer, my family and I visit our cabin in Minnesota, and if you know anything about Minnesota (the land of 10,000 lakes), you'll know that mosquitoes love being near water. Mosquitoes treat Minnesota like their own personal Cancun resort, and they’re teenagers getting to drink for the first time. And I’m the margarita. When I was about three or so, I got so many bites on my bald head, my dad would sit there and scratch my bumps until my eyes would roll back. And here I was, thinking there wouldn’t be bugs to fly around my head because, duh, Colorado is so dry. Wrong!
The worst part of the run was how aware I was of my steps. I’ve found that when I hit my best times and the best strides, it's when I’m super distracted. I’ve been alternating between a podcast that talks you through the training and music. Today, I chose the beloved 1989 (Taylor’s Version) to power me through. Little power did it offer, unfortunately. Each step burned up to my thighs, my old New Balance shoes slammed down hard on the concrete, and my ankles tingled with the pressure. I couldn’t get my mind off of it. Caught up in my discomfort, I forgot to put my shoulders back, pump my arms in rhythm, and even forgot to put a smile on my face, as the podcast reminds me to do.
I was nearly over with the run, only five more minutes to go, when I felt like giving up. Every time I get home from a bad run, Grace always reminds me that progress isn’t linear. I roll my eyes and say ‘sure,' but I'd rather avoid dying on a 2-mile run. Nearing my dramatic death with a firetruck red face, I looked around the neighborhood to keep my eyes up, eyes locking with a garage code box to an apartment. On the box, in light gray font, read, “Linear.” I smiled at that point. How funny, tiny, insignificant signs can somehow make you want to keep going. I was excited to finish it; I was excited to reach my street and sprint to my front door, as I do after every run. I was excited to get inside our little apartment and see Grace and say, “I had the worst run, but I bet Saturday’s run will be a lot better.” Because once I get through today’s run, I can do it again on Saturday. I am stronger than I was before the run. Maybe I’ll remember to keep my shoulders back, smile, and just wear a damn teeshirt.
