“Every run is a work of art, a drawing on each day’s canvas.  Some runs are shouts and some runs are whispers.  Some runs are eulogies and others are celebrations.  When you’re angry, a run can be a sharp slap in the face.  When happy, run is your song.”  Dagny Scott Barrios

And it is entirely possible for one 8 mile training run to be all of the above.

It had been weeks since I logged any miles on the mulit-use path within running distance from my house.  In fact, the last time was that day in July when I completed 15 and then hopped in my car and drove to Tahoe for family triathlon weekend/vacation.  I heard through the grapevine that the path from hell was being repaved and stayed away mostly for this reason, but also because several consecutive weeks of crawling up that hill on the return trip had chipped away at my confidence and will.  So like any marathoner of sound mind, I chose to practice avoidance of this particular form of imminent torture.  However, I am also a glutton for punishment (I think that’s actually the definition of marathoner)  and decided the time had come for a standoff.

After dropping my kids at school, I laced up and headed out my with iPod and water bottle.  Weaving through the neighborhood roads, it didn’t take long for me to hit pace.  After crossing and climbing a busy stretch I was finally reunited with my nemesis, who on the way out proved to be quite agreeable.  I was pleased to find that it was indeed freshly paved which made the flight down technically a cinch, meaning I was able to sprint without fear of stumbling (the exhilarating “shout” portion).  Once the path reconnected with the road, I skipped along in something very close to silence.  I think I encountered one dog-walker and maybe three cars, but no cyclists.  I switched off my iPod so as to fully immerse myself in this suburban rarity (the “whisper”).  Entertained only by the rhythm of my breath, the scuffling of my feet and the randomness of my thought;, I approached the 4-mile mark, tagged a tree and turned around.

I tried my best not to think about the inevitable suffering that lay ahead, but the direction my mind took was not much better (the beginning of the “slap in the face”).  As I set foot back on the path and began to climb, I quickly recalled the game of distraction I had used before- trash tallying.  And wouldn’t you know (something I’d failed to notice on my coast down and out) it was all gone!  All of it- the cigarette packages, McDonalds wrappers, used napkins, plastic bags and yes- even the brown Calvin Klein underwear, which I was looking forward to seeing for some reason (the “eulogy” and “celebration”).  I did spot some freaky dude stumbling around in a wooded area off the path, which totally freaked me out (a continuation of the “angry” portion).  But once I calmed down and realized that because he could barely walk, if the weirdo decided to take chase I could certainly outrun him, even up the *@!#^@#! hill (the beginning of the “song”).         

Once my climb was complete, I knocked out those last couple miles like they were my last couple miles ever.  I felt both energized and accomplished from my labor, only having broken pace briefly on the incline.  I plowed down the road towards home with a spring in my step  and song in my soul soles.