Batman began again in 2005. I begin again in 2015.
I could finally neglect my homework last Monday night; I coaxed my jogging buddy, lovingly known as Beef, to put down the eggnog and put on her tennis shoes; the stars aligned behind an overcast sky.
We were soggily jogging through the streets again.
Less than a mile in, I thought to myself, “Wow. Forgot how unromantic this pastime is. Don’t dry-heave.”
The honeymoon was over. I had began crushing on running lately, especially after writing about it for this column and reading an article from The Atlantic titled “Why Writers Run.”
From afar, this most simple of exercises is elegant and mystical.
“Racking up mile after mile is difficult, mind-expanding and hypnotic — just like putting words down on a page,” writes Nick Ripatrazone. He adds famous writers like Joyce Carol Oates and Jonathan Swift ran to refuel their pens.
OK, but what about the part when the eggnog and your mother’s spaghetti start a mosh pit in your stomach? Nowhere in Ripatrazone’s article does it mention Oates running on a gravel road, miles away from a toilet, when her belly begins revolting. Nowhere in his article does it mention Swift chafing in all the wrong areas.
During this first jog in many months, I pondered whether God really wanted humans to do such a heinous activity.
“He loves me, right?” I asked myself by the time my legs began to toy with cramping up.
He does. And I love running, sort of.
Kay Ryan, the former United States Poet Laureate, sums up my feelings well, as Ripatrazone adds her quote in his piece: “I like to run. Actually I don’t really like to run but I’ve done it for a million years.”
As the temperatures continue to drop and my life’s stresses continue to rise, let us pray Newton’s First Law of Motion keeps my moving legs in motion. I’ve started jogging again, and, for the sake of my health and writing, I need to keep true the ugly race.