I never thought I’d look forward to running
Two summers ago, I was weeks away from graduating high school. Fed up with shallow minded people and yearning for the anticipated “deep” intellectual discussions I would have with fellow college students in the fall, I had developed a flippant attitude towards everything. I couldn’t wait to leave, and I had no qualms about sharing my excitement with everyone around me.
My mother had no problems sharing how much she would miss me. Whether I noticed the pain in her eyes and ignored it, or whether I didn’t see it at all makes no difference anymore. I packed all my clothes, 17 pairs of shoes, and an absurdly out-of-place longboard, and shipped off to Boston.
I don’t know how long it took for the homesickness to set in. Certainly not very long. College was a huge transition for me. Public school hadn’t prepared me for the rigors of higher education, and I hadn’t yet developed the willpower to wield the powers of time-management to my advantage. That first semester brought me to tears many times.
Winter break was far too short and much too bittersweet, and was only a band-aid on the gaping laceration that was my grief.
Spring semester beat me down even more. There were conflicts with my parents — spring break plans they didn’t approve, rebellions against them that I used to hide my sadness. I missed them so much. When I came home for the summer, it was like returning from war. I was beaten, bruised, and ready to heal in so many ways.
Every morning during that six-week summer break, my mom woke me up at 7:30 sharp, and waited for me in the garage with her running shoes on. I blearily put in my contacts and stumbled into my shorts, pulling a t-shirt over my sports bra while simultaneously trying not to wake my slumbering sister and father. I had gained thirty pounds that first year, and she felt it was her duty to help me lose it.
We ran. Mostly 5K’s, but sometimes as far as 10K. When she ran faster than me, I pushed hard to keep up with her. I hated running. I hated that burning feeling in my lungs, the constant pound of my feet, the need to focus every second to make sure that I didn’t stop. I hated the ease with which my mom awoke, and I hated the way I yawned as I ran until I really woke up. But I loved the last sprint to the mailbox and the feel of the grainy plastic under my hand as my legs weakened in relief.
After every run, we walked to cool down. Those walks were perfect. The morning sun was just warm enough to be pleasant. We talked and laughed and philosophized on life as we lapped one block and came back home for coffee on the porch. We’d watch the cars go by and revel in the quiet morning before the hustle of the day.
These days, I run regularly. I don’t hate it anymore, but I don’t love it enough to get up early. On those rare instances that the stars align and I drag my sleepy ass out of bed, I’m taken back to those early morning runs with my mom last summer. I feel the same morning sun, have that same crazy feeling of yawning as I run, and I realize that I can’t wait to come home and run with my mom.
