Yesterday was a tough one.
Monday night, the little dude refused to sleep. He woke up at midnight, and again at three, and again at four thirty. Object permanence, they say. When my alarm went off at 5, instead of getting in a quick mile before heading out to travel to D.C., I hit snooze.
That was stupid.
Logically, I knew another ten minutes of sleep wasn’t going to make any difference in my day, but in that moment, my sleep deprived brain would accept nothing other than another ten minutes in bed.
So, 5:15. Up, shower, shave, coffee, suit, and out the door to catch the train to D.C. All day in our nation’s capital in meeting after meeting. Ended up in a bar in Du Pont with an old friend watching the U.S. lose.
Back on the train.
Cold sandwich, beer, spy novel. If only I could sleep in public places. Into Penn Station at 10:40. Fuck it, cab it home. Back in BK at 11:15. Kiss the sleeping wife. Kiss the sleeping baby. Change and head back out.
“I’m going for a quick run” I tell a sleeping E.
“You’re insane” she replies.
Yes, maybe I am.
What’s the point of dragging my exhausted ass to run a mile at 11:30 at night? There are no health benefits. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d be better off, physically, if I just went to sleep.
But this isn’t just about the physical, is it? It is about running as a refuge, as a thing you can control and do for yourself. It’s a place to reflect — even if its just for eight and a half minutes. Hell, you can do it everyday if you want to.
And its about more than that, too, right? Its about wanting something, and playing tricks with yourself to make sure to get there. Its about ensuring that because no excuse is good enough, the training always gets done. The miles always get logged, and you get where you’re trying to go little by little, day by day.
Its obsessive, sure, and many runners better than me don’t need to run everyday. But here’s what I’ve discovered – to get what I want out of running, both psychologically and physically, I do.
So there I was, at nearly midnight, with the people leaving the bars, and the guys on delivery bikes, and black cars circling for fares. There was no place I’d rather be.
One point four miles. Eleven minutes.