Yet another thought...

It is something of a foreign concept to many, myself included. I have read that the human body, by its very nature, seeks to do as little as possible – rather seeking to work as little as possible – in an effort to maintain its existence. All one need to do is look around and see that is the lifestyle being readily chosen by many of our brothers and sisters. Maybe it is my self-deprecating nature, but I tend to believe the opposite to be true. Rather our bodies, in and of their very selves, want to be healthy, efficient beings. However my poor decisions and destructive lifestyle has prevented me from allowing my body to be that which it is innately intended to be.

There is no secret that I have been entirely incredulous when it comes to my own well-being. I am not sure if it is nature or nurture or a little of both or something in between. My painfully debilitating habits of eating and drinking to excess of been my collective Achilles heel for as long as I can remember. There is safety in them both, sadly. They are comforting and, generally, do not put up much of a fight when asked to do the job. They medicate, in a feeble effort to mask the pain I wish never existed in the first place. It was almost as if somehow my life of excess enabled me to forget all that I was and amplified all I had wanted to become.

Hardly.

The excesses of my prior life have only gone to “pile on”, as it were. Instead of comforting and soothing all that is painful in my life, it has only gone to put my body in an even worse predicament. How my body tolerated my drinking and eating, I have no idea. There were some times, God as my witness, I felt as if my body was about to rebel in the most Biblical of ways.

This was not so much of a difficult realization to have. Not at all. It, to me, is all about common sense. I cannot envision a life without running. It really has become a part of the fiber of my very being for the past two years-plus. There have been times, however, that my addictions to food and drink have secretly – or not – attempted to railroad my efforts at a healthier lifestyle. Once I had realized that my body wanted nothing exemplary or revolutionary, it suddenly became easy. My body wants nothing more than to do what it does, efficiently. I cannot expect to run while drinking like a fish and eating as if I will never see food again.

Again, not revolutionary things, but the drugs of my life of excess have some form of blinding powers as well, apparently.

There may be other, more astounding revelations to be had, somewhere along the line. I hope so. Ideas like this, and I feel I am insulting the notion by calling it an “idea”, is nothing short of life-changing. I am not through with re-examining my relationship with food and drink. Not by a long shot. But that first realization is that initial step. I have been waiting for that first step for a long time.

Where have I been?

It truly amazes me how reading someone else's words really is the key to unlocking so many doors for me. This morning was no different. I have been running - in some way, shape, or form - for the better part of two years and change. However, it was not until I read yet another one of John Bingham's classic chapters that I realized I was a runner. Right, exactly. I had been running all this time, only just now to figure I was a runner.

I had brief moments of noticing this before, sure. Long runs, outside, last spring or summer, unveiled some of the most beautiful spring and summer weekend mornings with sunrises that I could not have painted any better had I been a painter worth his salt. There were moments that, with the help of some timely music, I was moved to a step just shy of tears. Strange for me, I know. But still...

Why has it taken me so long to make such an admission? Well, much like Bingham, I am not fast. I am not sure I am ready to label myself a Penguin, by any stretch, but I guess I am, in reality. My prior two efforts at a 5K showed me, in no uncertain terms, that I should accept my lot in life as a waddler. I will get there... one day.

That said, appreciating the fact that, for the past two years-plus, I have been able to move my body using nothing more than my two feet is nothing short of astonishing. I remember how rotund I used to consider myself. I still do, actually. But that is another issue for another time. The fact that I carry so much control over how fast or how far I run, at any particular point in time is an amazing thing for me.

Yesterday was a great example of this. I ran for about 80 minutes, just a shade over 7 miles. I cared nothing for pace. I simply wanted to run for a long time. I felt I could have run forever. Sure, at the 70 minute mark I ramped up the treadmill a touch to pick up the pace and my heart rate, but if I had kept the pace where it was, I have no doubt I could have run a few more miles. A half marathon? Perhaps. Well, maybe. I am not sure. But yesterday morning, I felt like I could have run to infinity. Or, in all actuality, run from all that has weighed down m heart and soul.

That is another interesting aspect of my running. Some choose to run towards something - a personal record, a medal, a t-shirt, whatever. I believe I am running away from a deep, dark history of pain and suffering. Short runs are nice and sometimes fun. But the real transcendental moments for me are when I run for distance and time. I attribute it to all of the stored body fat on my frame. Hey, I am built for running long distances... just look at all of the stored energy I have on my body, ready for use!

But I digress. Point being, on a relatively unassuming Sunday, I found that which running had given me. And it only took me over two years to realize it. Sad and exhilarating all at the same time. My life is on a better to being better. It may not be roses and fuzzy bunnies the whole time. But I will be a better person, someday.

Like someone once told me... This is who I am today. I could be better. I could be worse. But I will always work to improve from the day before.

More random thoughts...

What a tangled web I tend to weave, especially in my own mind. But there are milliseconds of clarity, even with all that is happening in my life. Small realizations such as that which I had this morning are more valuable to me than to anyone else, obviously, but it is so hard to place an actual value on them.

Today will be just about one week of total sobriety for me. I am not sure if that is a good thing or not. Maybe, maybe not. I am many things... a creature of habit, type A, obsessive compulsive... the whole lot. Sadly, during this time while I have given up the drink, and I know it has only been a week, I have been wanting to eat like a horse. I have avoided those inclinations, by and large, but they still exist. It was not until this morning that I realized just how and why this is happening.

Food has always been an addiction for me. For as long as I can remember, it was the drug that eased my pain and sheltered and comforted me from the horror of reality. Granted, I was the only one who prevented me from doing anything about it - Lord knows, I am the only one who has the key to that car. But as time wore on, and in my futile attempts to right the wrongs of my life, I continued to exchange one one drug for another. Food, alcohol, back to food, sometimes exercise, whatever.

Just how dependent am I on these drugs? Obviously, very. Am I an alcoholic like my father was? I don't know, maybe. He probably drank a bit more consistently than I ever did. One thing I have never been is consistent. Insert rim hot here.

The other revelation from this morning was not really so much of a revelation as it was a recollection. I truly believe my dad talks to me from time to time. No, they are not the orchestrated conversations with those long gone, as we see in movies or on television. He occasionally just shows up, unannounced - that is just like him - and sticks his two cents in - that too is just like him. The recurring theme of what he tells me is, essentially, to be better than he was. Honestly, I am not completely sure what that means. I never really knew him well enough to be able to say what that entailed. But his reputation precedes him - sorry dad, I am trying to stick up for you.

I really wonder if it is him talking to me, although my heart tells m it is. I guess it is possible that I am using his memory to convey something that I want for myself, and this is another way to get that message from my subconscious to my conscious mind. I cannot be sure. I like the former thought better than the latter. I would like to think he is looking down on me, and wants good things for me. It is reasonable, I think, to believe that he knew life was going to be hard for me without him. I don't know, maybe he did not care. But I did. I do.

It is thoughts like these that really make my mind even more busy than it already is. It is difficult if not impossible to compartmentalize right now. I guess it always has been thanks to that little coping mechanism called repression.

But, enough with the doom and gloom. I am working on myself. Granted, I am a work in progress. I probably always will be. But it is little things like this that put a smile on my inner face. I know I have a long road to hoe to get myself back in order, whatever that means. I am ready, willing and, I pray, able to get on my way.

Although I know he will never read this, I have to say it... I want to thank John Bingham for writing... at all. Everything I have read from him thus far has spoken to me in ways that go so far beyond the act of running itself. It really tore right into my very being with regard to my emotions of the past, present, and future. I would like to think I am a better person for having read a single line of his work. I am not the only one he has helped with his writings, this I know, but I am the only one I know who has benefited quite as much as I have.

Keep waddling I will, John. I will.