Before I sat down to write this, I went running.  Not to clear my head, but to fill my head with words that could eventually spill out onto this page.  Now back at my desk, I stroke my rough heels, and massage the stubby toenail that will never grow back properly.  Since I didn’t stretch, I may catch myself limping on the streets later when the old foot starts acting up again.  I recall the orthopedist did not break a smile when I coyly told him my feet were my preferred mode of transport.

Many times, running is simply the practical choice.  The bakery with the light, flaky croissants does not have any parking. The best hot chocolate in town is actually all the way across town.  Running to the ice cream parlor means the hot fudge, whipped cream, and syrupy walnuts never even happened!

Other times, running is a whimsical decision to fly.  I soar to a bright green field where I am eight years old, standing and watching kites float overhead across the piercing blue skies.  From there I drift to the moment when I heard the Police tell me for the very first time, that there was a little black spot on the sun today.   And before long, I glide onstage gracefully, a prima ballerina.  The Bolshoi or The New York City Ballet will do.

When I return home giddy after all that mental air travel, I may do something stupid.  Like flip through my husband’s copy of Runner’s World.  Suddenly, I find myself noting down how to properly eat toast.  Or how to tie my shoelaces for ultra speed.  Or, how best to nap, which is curious because I normally consider myself an expert.

The next day, I may get annoyed at someone using the treadmill for walking.  Or at myself for making shopping plans during prime running weather.  When someone suggests Sunday brunch instead of Sunday’s long run, I snap.

And then I force myself to sit and remember a contractor who came to my house a few years ago, a fatherly figure of sorts who I enjoyed chatting with.  The first time he came over, he saw me still lingering in my running gear, plenty of sneakers in the hallway, and he started quizzing me about race times. And proceeded to give me his, which were faster than any of mine.  His runs were also decades ago.  And yet, he was only as good as his best race time.  His pride saddened me.

Runners obsess, and they judge.  They beat themselves up.  And they live in the past.  I hope to still be running when I reach that gentleman’s age.  But I would like to have had a life along the way.  I choose a sofa cuddle with the cat, even if it’s a crisp fall day, perfect for you know what.  I will delight in the phone ringing, a call from France to chat about nothing in particular, just as I have laced up.  And when Sting comes on the radio randomly in the morning, I may dance in the kitchen wasting precious time.  For that is flying at the greatest heights.