This: http://augustafreepress.com/kathleen-herring-why-i-run/
Published in the Augusta Free Press this morning. Enjoy =D
Monday, July 22, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Sanity Walk
Every day after lunch, I take a few minutes to check email and make sure nothing pressing has come up while I was on break, and then I go out for my daily walk.
My 'walk' is to the college post office, where I pick up any mail for the department. But really, that's my excuse to spend a few minutes outside, walk off a few calories, see what the weather is like, and clear my head before the second half of my workday really gets started.
I take the long way around, doing a full circuit of the 'Lawn' (or 'Quad' as I usually think of it) before stopping in at the post office on my way back to the office. This way I get the best view of one of the prettiest parts of campus, while spending more than half my walk in the cooling shade of the trees lining the Lawn.
I walk out the door and my first thought is, "Man, it's hot out here." I know they were forecasting 90-degree days all week, and had been complaining about it. But at the moment, it feels good. I've just spent 5 solid hours sitting behind a desk in my always-slightly-too-air-conditioned office, under my artificial lights, staring at a computer screen or working through the massive pile of notes, unread emails and to-do lists before taking an hour out to watch Gilmore Girls and eat my salad and half-sandwich and two cookies for the day.
The afternoon heat actually feels good, and even as I squint at the bright reflection of sunlight off hot sidewalks I feel the skin on my arms soaking up the warmth of natural light. As I walk under the trees I ponder the strangeness of not feeling overheated. It's not uncomfortable; it's not too hot. It's just hot. It's what Summer is supposed to feel like, that season which I feel like I've missed most of already while I was busy being stressed out and busy and working and sitting behind that desk at that computer in that always-slightly-too-air-conditioned office. THIS is summer; THIS is me, out in Summer.
I can hear the soft clop, clop of my little grey ballet shoes on the pavement, and I contemplate how these thin little sandals both remind me of real ballet shoes and of walking barefoot. The soles are so thin I can feel the unevenness of the cracks in the sidewalk. I contemplate how it would feel to take off my shoes and walk in the grass. I think how undignified that would look if anyone were to see me running around barefoot while I'm at work. I keep walking.
I look up briefly to check that no cars are about to run me over then proceed into the crosswalk, coming out from under the trees into direct sunlight. It is hot. So hot. I think of past summers that seem far away, summers with vacations and sand and swimming and sunscreen. I think that I have already missed out on most of the summer because I've been too busy sitting in my air-conditioned fake lighting and staring at artificial words and pictures and videos on a variety of televisions, monitors and other electronic screens.
I chide myself quietly. I have not "missed out" on summer. I remind myself of the day spent at King's Dominion, of the feeling of butterflies in my stomach as we clicked slowly up the hill of the new roller-coaster, questioning my own judgement in boarding the ride in nervous anticipation of the height of the unknown hill. I remind myself of the feeling of dryness in the back of my throat from screaming, screaming, screaming until my breath runs out and my world spins upside down.
I remind myself of the Fourth of July. Of cookouts and fireworks and hundreds and thousands of fireflies twinkling in the trees, and thousands and millions of stars shining out bright in the night sky. More stars than I've ever seen in this country. More stars than I'd seen since that one night four years ago in the Negev Desert in Israel, when I stood still and silenced by the sheer enormity of the sky.
I remind myself of our tubing trip down the river, of how nervous I was about getting ready for the day. About the copious amounts of sunscreen lovingly applied to every nook and cranny which had no effect whatsoever once I submerged myself in river water. I remember the days spent wincing and cringing and cowering in a darkened room, applying rivers of aloe vera and plunking my raw red legs inches from a fan while watching Star Trek and playing Lego Lord of the Rings with my equally-sunburned boyfriend.
I remind myself of hours spent training and practicing and running and complaining about running, of the training log I've kept for months of how and when I exercise and my successes and failures in running practice. Of the leading up to the Big Event, the 5K run this past Saturday. Of the nervousness getting ready, the sheer panic of not knowing what I was doing or why. The feeling when we took off from the starting line and saw hundreds of strangers running beside and behind and in front of me (the majority, I think, being in front of me). The feeling of neighborhood folks sitting out on their front lawns at eight o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, just to cheer us on and tell us we are wonderful for doing what we are doing, waving signs that say 'Runners are Awesome' and waving as we pass them by. They don't know me, but they're cheering for me. While I'm doing something incredibly hard and that I'm not good at.
I think that a college campus in summer is a good place for a walk and a think. These perfectly manicured green lawns, the flowers which never seem to wilt or droop despite the blazing heat of the day, the sculpted hedges and neatly trimmed sidewalk edges are empty save for me, no students talking or laughing or walking or playing on the Lawn. This place, which was created for Them, which is currently devoid of Them, has a sort of haunted quality to it, like it, too, is waiting for them to come back. Waiting for something to happen.
It's quiet. And yet, there are many sounds in this Quiet. The wind murmurs quietly in the tops of the trees, rustling leaf against leaf in a constant conversation of which I am not a part. The birds twitter and chirp and flit from branch to branch. A squirrel, startled from his search for food, scampers up the bole of a nearby tree, chattering to himself. And the steady clop, clop of my quiet little shoes.
I'm beginning to sweat from the heat. My eyes have glazed over and I plod along the straight line between the trees, looking vaguely towards the ground a few yards in front of my feet. I think that I should get out more, that I should do more, but I'm tired. I need to get back, to get back to work.
My feet carry me back up the steps and into the refreshing blast of artificially cooled air, into the darkened hallway and through the door to my artificially-lit office, and plunk myself back down in my leather swivel chair, back to my unread emails and to-do lists and words and pictures and screens.
I think if it were ever decided that I had to give up my after-lunch Sanity Walk, I wouldn't make it through the day. It's ten or twenty minutes of essentially nothing, just a little sunlight and random thoughts. Or days when I walk in the rain with my umbrella, getting my shoes wet and reveling in the smell of summer storms. The days in the winter when I got all bundled up in scarf and gloves and hat to walk in the brisk cold air. The fall, when I admired the leaves which seemed to change drastically each and every day of the week.
Until tomorrow, dear Walk. For now, I have three more hours to sit in this swivel chair and muster up the energy from seemingly empty reserves to go work out at the gym again. It's been over a week and I don't want to lose my rhythm. Like my daily walk, the same route at around the same time every day, my workouts are a stabilizing force in my life. A time to be alone with my thoughts in a quiet environment, while my body is too busy to get restless or bored. And yet, after nine hours of work it gets hard to motivate to actually go in there and put my workout clothes on. To actually get on the treadmill and force my lethargic muscles to burn away these excess calories. All I want at that point is a nap. Ah, well.
Until next time, then.
My 'walk' is to the college post office, where I pick up any mail for the department. But really, that's my excuse to spend a few minutes outside, walk off a few calories, see what the weather is like, and clear my head before the second half of my workday really gets started.
I take the long way around, doing a full circuit of the 'Lawn' (or 'Quad' as I usually think of it) before stopping in at the post office on my way back to the office. This way I get the best view of one of the prettiest parts of campus, while spending more than half my walk in the cooling shade of the trees lining the Lawn.
I walk out the door and my first thought is, "Man, it's hot out here." I know they were forecasting 90-degree days all week, and had been complaining about it. But at the moment, it feels good. I've just spent 5 solid hours sitting behind a desk in my always-slightly-too-air-conditioned office, under my artificial lights, staring at a computer screen or working through the massive pile of notes, unread emails and to-do lists before taking an hour out to watch Gilmore Girls and eat my salad and half-sandwich and two cookies for the day.
The afternoon heat actually feels good, and even as I squint at the bright reflection of sunlight off hot sidewalks I feel the skin on my arms soaking up the warmth of natural light. As I walk under the trees I ponder the strangeness of not feeling overheated. It's not uncomfortable; it's not too hot. It's just hot. It's what Summer is supposed to feel like, that season which I feel like I've missed most of already while I was busy being stressed out and busy and working and sitting behind that desk at that computer in that always-slightly-too-air-conditioned office. THIS is summer; THIS is me, out in Summer.
I can hear the soft clop, clop of my little grey ballet shoes on the pavement, and I contemplate how these thin little sandals both remind me of real ballet shoes and of walking barefoot. The soles are so thin I can feel the unevenness of the cracks in the sidewalk. I contemplate how it would feel to take off my shoes and walk in the grass. I think how undignified that would look if anyone were to see me running around barefoot while I'm at work. I keep walking.
I look up briefly to check that no cars are about to run me over then proceed into the crosswalk, coming out from under the trees into direct sunlight. It is hot. So hot. I think of past summers that seem far away, summers with vacations and sand and swimming and sunscreen. I think that I have already missed out on most of the summer because I've been too busy sitting in my air-conditioned fake lighting and staring at artificial words and pictures and videos on a variety of televisions, monitors and other electronic screens.
I chide myself quietly. I have not "missed out" on summer. I remind myself of the day spent at King's Dominion, of the feeling of butterflies in my stomach as we clicked slowly up the hill of the new roller-coaster, questioning my own judgement in boarding the ride in nervous anticipation of the height of the unknown hill. I remind myself of the feeling of dryness in the back of my throat from screaming, screaming, screaming until my breath runs out and my world spins upside down.
I remind myself of the Fourth of July. Of cookouts and fireworks and hundreds and thousands of fireflies twinkling in the trees, and thousands and millions of stars shining out bright in the night sky. More stars than I've ever seen in this country. More stars than I'd seen since that one night four years ago in the Negev Desert in Israel, when I stood still and silenced by the sheer enormity of the sky.
I remind myself of our tubing trip down the river, of how nervous I was about getting ready for the day. About the copious amounts of sunscreen lovingly applied to every nook and cranny which had no effect whatsoever once I submerged myself in river water. I remember the days spent wincing and cringing and cowering in a darkened room, applying rivers of aloe vera and plunking my raw red legs inches from a fan while watching Star Trek and playing Lego Lord of the Rings with my equally-sunburned boyfriend.
I remind myself of hours spent training and practicing and running and complaining about running, of the training log I've kept for months of how and when I exercise and my successes and failures in running practice. Of the leading up to the Big Event, the 5K run this past Saturday. Of the nervousness getting ready, the sheer panic of not knowing what I was doing or why. The feeling when we took off from the starting line and saw hundreds of strangers running beside and behind and in front of me (the majority, I think, being in front of me). The feeling of neighborhood folks sitting out on their front lawns at eight o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, just to cheer us on and tell us we are wonderful for doing what we are doing, waving signs that say 'Runners are Awesome' and waving as we pass them by. They don't know me, but they're cheering for me. While I'm doing something incredibly hard and that I'm not good at.
I think that a college campus in summer is a good place for a walk and a think. These perfectly manicured green lawns, the flowers which never seem to wilt or droop despite the blazing heat of the day, the sculpted hedges and neatly trimmed sidewalk edges are empty save for me, no students talking or laughing or walking or playing on the Lawn. This place, which was created for Them, which is currently devoid of Them, has a sort of haunted quality to it, like it, too, is waiting for them to come back. Waiting for something to happen.
It's quiet. And yet, there are many sounds in this Quiet. The wind murmurs quietly in the tops of the trees, rustling leaf against leaf in a constant conversation of which I am not a part. The birds twitter and chirp and flit from branch to branch. A squirrel, startled from his search for food, scampers up the bole of a nearby tree, chattering to himself. And the steady clop, clop of my quiet little shoes.
I'm beginning to sweat from the heat. My eyes have glazed over and I plod along the straight line between the trees, looking vaguely towards the ground a few yards in front of my feet. I think that I should get out more, that I should do more, but I'm tired. I need to get back, to get back to work.
My feet carry me back up the steps and into the refreshing blast of artificially cooled air, into the darkened hallway and through the door to my artificially-lit office, and plunk myself back down in my leather swivel chair, back to my unread emails and to-do lists and words and pictures and screens.
I think if it were ever decided that I had to give up my after-lunch Sanity Walk, I wouldn't make it through the day. It's ten or twenty minutes of essentially nothing, just a little sunlight and random thoughts. Or days when I walk in the rain with my umbrella, getting my shoes wet and reveling in the smell of summer storms. The days in the winter when I got all bundled up in scarf and gloves and hat to walk in the brisk cold air. The fall, when I admired the leaves which seemed to change drastically each and every day of the week.
Until tomorrow, dear Walk. For now, I have three more hours to sit in this swivel chair and muster up the energy from seemingly empty reserves to go work out at the gym again. It's been over a week and I don't want to lose my rhythm. Like my daily walk, the same route at around the same time every day, my workouts are a stabilizing force in my life. A time to be alone with my thoughts in a quiet environment, while my body is too busy to get restless or bored. And yet, after nine hours of work it gets hard to motivate to actually go in there and put my workout clothes on. To actually get on the treadmill and force my lethargic muscles to burn away these excess calories. All I want at that point is a nap. Ah, well.
Until next time, then.
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