First things first: Go wish Kat a happy birthday. ¡Feliz cumpleaños, hermanita!
Night-time runs are becoming the part of my day around which the rest pivots. I cherish the chance to breathe hard in cool air, a fast straight line through town with no one in the way or watching — although I did meet up with the skunk again, and she seems to be growing impatient with me. If the curve implied by these last two points holds true, she will douse me in four more runs.
Pacific chorus frogs are part of the background in the night, but I bring them into the foreground. Their song fills my mind and shoves aside the minor ache, the muscle cramp. Most nights I am the center of a sphere of silence, the frogs falling quiet as I pass then starting up again. Last night was a good one: they did not stop their singing as I ran.
I added a quarter mile to my route last night; I have been increasing the run’s length in small increments, I hope to avoid the ankle blowout that ended my 5k/day habit ten years ago. No pushing now, no mortification of the flesh or punishment for being lax. I can stop halfway if I want. And so, mainly, I don’t.
I have lost about 30 pounds since January. In one of the many discussions of fat I have read on people’s blogs of late, I saw a rather defensive plaint about one of the alternatives to fat acceptance being “exercising like a maniac.” I exercised like a maniac two years ago, visiting the gym every second night and subjecting myself to the drone of treadmill and television, and finding as the days passed less and less difference between the two. I am now at the low weight I reached back then, and dropping still, and feeling luxuriously lazy about it all. Some days ago I crossed the line the reviled Body Mass Index sets between “obese” and merely “overweight.” If twelve sit-ups every other day is “exercising like a maniac,” then call me an ascetic here on the chaise with my ripe strawberries. To simply move is delight.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Categories:
Hiking
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