After last week’s self-shaming, this had to be the week I restarted my running obsession.
Feeling like a phony is my least favorite of the feels, so I told Features Editor Kelsey that I would run Thursday Night and write a 300-word reflection piece. Because this is “Soggy Jogging” and that’s what the author should do.
In theory, this would have worked well.
I was ready to self-fulfill the shit out of that last article.
Like the theory of gravity, my plan went down, hard. Having good intentions and writing said intentions in a public forum apparently aren’t enough to get me up and running again. Good to know.
It’s not that I’ve become an entirely sedentary entity. I walk about two miles to and fro school almost every weekday. That’s something.
Soggy jogging it is not, but there’s something to be said about briskly walking to your morning class after a five-minute delay while lugging a 20-pound backpack along for the ride. It’s more or less a damp dash. If it were socially acceptable to run with your backpack and casual clothes, I’d be the fastest turtle-looking student in north Fargo.
But this is not the case. So I walk.
The Walk, as I’ve come to call my daily jaunt, is a daily adventure in itself. I enjoy it with all my senses, since I lack a smartphone and iPod. This is the horror that ensues:
Out my front door I go, past my neighbors with the black, unleashed cat that chills outside on the deck 24/7.
I call him Charles.
Across I go, jaywalking Frogger-style across 10th Avenue and University Drive. That I haven’t been hit yet is nothing short of a miracle: the gravel road on which I grew up had more deer (or Deere) traffic than human.
The big city life continues to terrify me in my junior year, though I rarely feel unsafe. Even when walking back from campus in the wee hours.
Even with Charles’ glowing yellow eyes following my tired steps.
The Walk is not a jog, but I’m quite all right with that.