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Maybe its because I was a sprinter in high school (funny how we hold on
to these old memories, like they were yesterday), but it probably goes
back even further than that. This deep, compelling urgent feeling... to
move - to feel my hair swept backwards like the ears of a greyhound (or
like the ears of some mutt with his head poking around the side of a
pickup's cab).
The feeling is almost always with me.
When walking down an empty hall, I have to restrain myself from just
sprinting to the end. Or on a sled, wishing there were some way to make
it go faster... faster. On water skies, feeling the water slapping at
the bottom, waiting for the boat to make its turn, knowing that at any
moment I would be hurtling in an arc behind it. On the track, waiting
in the blocks, with all the pent-up energy of a thoroughbred, waiting
for the sound of the gun that would set me free. Free! Moving through
the turns as I line up with my competitors. Pushing. Pushing. No
time to breathe. Must breathe. Lungs are burning. Legs on fire. Turning
into the wind spurns me on harder, I lean forward, tilt my head down,
and dig in, cutting a wedge into the air that impedes me. And then
crossing the finish, knowing that even just ten more yards would not
have been possible as I struggle to control the rush of air that I try
to take in.
I suppose its the closest thing I have to an addiction.
As a teenager, I tempted fate on country highways behind the wheel of
my LeMans. Taking the car to speeds over 130 mph. Or turning off the
radio, dash lights and headlights with only the soft white glow of the
moon to light my way as I push the car faster and faster. Memories that
still excite me, but scare me all the same.
And so I run. I run in an attempt to satisfy this unquenchable thirst.
I watch as the ground moves past me, taking it and the cares of that
day with it. There's so much yet to savor, and so I run because I can't
wait for it any longer.
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