As it is winter (well, global warming’s version of it anyway, less rain and snow, wild swings of temperature, an unease that this is the new normal), the days are dark more than they are light. And when it is dark more than it is light, I am less inclined to run on a regular schedule. Or, c’mon, who am I kidding the past month: I don’t run during the week.
I am a Weekend Warrior.
This means I try to churn out as many miles from either overly sore or slightly desk-mushy legs as possible in two days. Yesterday, it was about six miles, a trail run on my normal route with an ascension added in.
I was not in top event form or speed. I shortened my stride to go easier on my lungs. I stopped to rest in places I normally blow by. I didn’t check the timing.
And yet, I was deeply content.
That’s why it makes little sense to me that I fight against running during the weekdays of winter. Why sit around pondering running when I could already BE running? Why turn down any guarantee of contentment? It’s a known fact that no one ever regrets going for a run, only not having gone on one.
I have pep talks queued up and plans in the hopper and I know this is all temporary, but it is bordering on a malaise, which is a distant cousin to a funk…
I am not done asking myself, why turn down any guarantee of contentment?
I think the answer will come on the trail.