Gingko

Five miles this morning. Well, five running, and then some walking.

I surprise myself with it. I set out in the fog, just forcing myself to move. A fast walk. I figure it’s a win I got out the door at all.

I get to the corner at the top of that slow incline, and suddenly I just know I’m going to go in spite of the resistance.

Run through that fog. Take my jacket off; tie it around my hips. Never really notice the fog lifting, just watching those 15 feet in front of me.

Jump a little over the uneven spots. Push on the slight inclines. Notice the leaves on the trees, so many different ones. There’s the gingko.

I come around the corner after mile three, and suddenly I am 13 years old, racing down the street searching for safety. In the moment, just grim and determined, breathless. Hours later, I think about it, and feel it in my stomach.

I think about being in my body. I notice that I am small, tight, neatly locked into a tiny spot in my chest, just above my solar plexus. My shoulders ache. My legs feel strong, capable, ready, despite the faint call of a tiring knee.

I count. A thousand one. A thousand two. I get up to thirty or forty and start over. It’s the meditation. Who can think if they’re busy counting?

Mile five done, and I am disappointed it’s already over.

I keep walking.

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