Give Me Life on the Road

Solitude has gone missing.

I have a hard time turning off the computer when I am home. If I am not working in someone else's kitchen, my cell phone is never far away, and (*sigh*) I'm often on it. Whether I am literally with others, or just electronically tethered, I feel like I am never alone.

Reassuring, perhaps. Exhausting, definitely.

I think I might take up a life on the road.

Running, for me, is the most blessed solitude. I ran, in my younger days, because it was the only means I had to work out an almost unbearable restlessness. The first two weeks of getting your legs and lungs into some kind of regimen are sheer hell. And then, running is sheer joy. And running brings that missing solitude right back. You can't run and be on a cell phone. You can't run and email. Or run and Facebook.

You can only run. And breathe. And be. In a perfect sort of solitude.

Many years ago, I ran a marathon. I ran it slowly... poorly, even... if you looked at my atrociously slow time. But I ran it. And during the 3 months I trained, I ran 6 days a week, sometimes staying out on the roads alone for hours.

Throughout those 3 training months, I cleared an awful lot of cobwebs out of my young mind, lost my youthful interest in overdoing beer and chips, educated myself about health and nutrition, and found an inner resolve that allowed me to accomplish my business goals.

Running alone was powerful stuff. Oh, and I liked the way it made my jeans fit, too, even as I ordered thirds on Bete Noir. (Oh, yes I did!) I was together, fit, and eating my weight in flourless chocolate torte.

Despite the tendinitis in my foot, despite the already surgically-altered right knee, and despite the fact that we could see more weeks of damp and penetrating cold, I think it's time I hit the road.

The blessed solitude of running is, I think, the nicest way to rebel against the Facebook generation. So restorative, when little else is these days.

And then there's that matter of extra dessert...