A friend asked if I've been running. He asked because he'd read some of my latest postings. He seems to think running is good therapy and takes your mind off bothersome topics, and since I've blogged on some of those topics I must not have been running. He's right about running as therapy -- sometimes. He's wrong about my not running.
In fact, I've been gradually increasing my running, now over 40 miles per week. Knock on wood (I probably shouldn't mention it). It feels good to get out and go. Well, not right away. It takes a mile or two. Often I get to the point when I feel as if I could run forever. Not "fast" like I used to run. Slow and easy. Not long ago my son saw me loping along and commented that it hardly looked as if I were running. I'm realistic enough not to take that as a compliment on my form; he meant I looked as if I were walking.
"What's the point of all that running:?" asks Virginia.
To prove I'm not getting old? Nonsense. I know I'm getting older every day. That has nothing to do with it.
Because I'm getting old? Maybe. I believe I've commented before that when I was in my twenties I hated waiting in lines. Now, unless I have another appointment, which is highly unusual, I don't mind waiting. I must admit I don't really "wait." Since my twenties, I've learned to be prepared. I usually have a notebook handy, or something to read. These days my office can be anywhere.
Running forces me to wait. No notebook in hand, my mind writes poems, works on book updates, gazes into nowhere, or thinks about recent news stories.
"Ah, so you blame it on running," says Virginia.
No, it's this stupid blog. The more controversial, the more hits.
The Bowman Women; A Work In Progress
1 week ago