Finding My Own Rhythm

Clubbed to Death use to be my favourite running song. It was 2006 and I had just moved to London and convinced one of my oldest and dearest friends to let me start running with her. It had been a really hot summer and my lungs were collapsing with the smog, my muscles were fatigued and Islingston had completely disoriented me, panicking that I would be unable to have the energy to make it back to our "bunker" I began to hyperventilate. We had been running for just over 7 minutes. I saw my saviour a local council worker picking up rubbish and managed to convince him to give us a lift home. Being a sophisticated Londoner my friend was mortified but cared enough about my safety to help the councillor worker escort me home in the council van. She never ran with me again. This is one of my many failed attempts to be a runner and the last time I heard Clubbed to Death. True Story.

One of my many observations about "real" runners is that they run in silence. Since I began running with Spirit I have ditched the headphones and obsession with creating the perfect play list. This, surprisingly, has been the easiest transition so far. Silence is rare in my life. I have a husband that thinks talk back radio is interesting, a 3 year old who talks incessantly about anything, a 2 year old who likes rock music and a 11 month old baby who is desperately trying to be heard above it all. There is no longer a disco inside of my head when I run. I silently witness, with every thud, one step closer to completing my marathon miracle. This is sacred.

But sacredness aside, it is also very practical. I know when to focus more on my breathing. I can hear what direction cars are coming in (this is handy having spent the most part of my life driving on the "wrong" side), and identify animals rustling in the ditch. Like this evening when I heard something, and my heart sunk thinking "BEAR!". Half in excitement as I have never seen a wild one yet, but also I would be very tasty to a bear. I have a nice, even layer of fat and the mosquito bites are testament that I am sweet and tasty. On the plus side if I was attacked it would be a credible reason to hang up my sneakers and get a very cool scar. But unfortunately it was not a bear. It was a skunk. I had never seen a live skunk either till this evening. It just toddled on up to me with no fear, waving it's tail like a puppy. Even a bear would be scared of a skunk. I can not get skunked and luckily, this evening I discovered I can out run one. My heart rate is my new beat, my erratic, gasping, wheezing breath a constant chorus. I'm running to my own rhythm.