Posted at The Loop, the blogs at Runner’sWorld.com
There’s a phrase that uses a color, combined with a word which itself is a metaphor for a part of the male anatomy. This part of the anatomy is always referred to in pairs, and so the latter word is a plural word, while the former, the color, is closer to the shorter-end of the wavelength spectrum. I hope you know what I mean– I’m trying to be delicate here, but I can’t think of any other phrase that captures the frustration and disappointment of a lack of fulfillment, as well as the connotation of it being a wilful decision to desist from the activities that would otherwise fulfill.
And I want to apply it, this metaphor, to a run I had the other day, making it into another metaphor. Maybe, when we’re done, we can come up with a new portmanteau, and then I won’t have to resort to vulgarity or obtuse euphemism.
So there I was, on the treadmill, running at my usual treadmill pace, which according the screen was about 6.7 mph, but according to my watch with the pace-counter was at a good 8:45 minutes per mile. And I felt fantastic. I was listening to some seriously exquisite hard rock instrumentals, with the guitar and the drums and the everything. This was synergy, this was full immersion, this is what Yuri Vlason calls “the white moment.”
Not exactly runner’s high, if I may. This wasn’t euphoria, as such (although I have to confess, I relate euphoria to taking a few vicodin and having a glass of wine). We’re each of us, we runners, different, so maybe this would have been a runner’s high for you. I’m just saying– I was in the zone. I inched the speed up a few tenths of a MPH. The song ended and another, even better one, began.
And then the clock on the treadmill- which never, alas, disagrees with my running watch, told me my time was up. I was done. 40 minutes. That’s what I had planned for. Not all that long, really. I could have kept going. I wanted to keep going. But did I need to keep going?
No, not really. In fact, I wanted to be able to run well the next day, and I knew from experience that no matter how great I felt, pounding above my usual speed for even another mile would leave me sore later. Not a bad sore, but sore nevertheless. So I dropped the speed and started to walk my cool-down.
And boy was I mad. I was furious. I clenched my fists, gritted my teeth, and cursed under my breath. So unfair. So uncool. So not right. We’re shoved onto this planet against our will, forced to grow, to get bigger, blobbier, take on stupid responsibilities, face down an utter pointlessness to it all, and when we finally get a chance to feel something approaching purpose, our stupid-ass brains remind us of our frailties and make us ration out the joy. A little today, a little tomorrow. Damn it all.
I got over it, of course. I went home and showered and got dressed and poked at the computer and had some coffee and went back to existing. And I did run the next day, too. And it was fine, nothing to complain about. Not quite as good.
But worth stopping for? Maybe. Probably. I want to think so. What’s the phrase about discretion being the better part of valor? Yeah, that’s what I’m telling myself. But the real take away is that I was the one who made the decision. I had a plan, and I stuck to it. I’m going to call that morality.
Totally sucks.