that worry? i'm saving it for later.

I’m an early morning runner. This time of year that means the beginning of my runs are sometimes in the dar, but that’s when I have the most energy. Just before I leave, I stand near the back door to my house, at a tiny set of stairs that leads to the larger first-to-second floor staircase. It’s a small spot, and the wood stairs form a perfect place to stretch my leg muscles before I go out the door.

I turn my head to the left and look at our family calendar on the wall. It’s just at eye level and as I stretch, I occupy my brain by looking at it. Immediately I see the plot of my life for the month. If I look closely, I can see myself scurrying around in my busy daily life – all according to what’s written in the calendar. The craziness of each day is written in each box of each month.

Overwhelming.

I’m still stretching, preparing to run for 45 or 60 minutes or more, but here I stand, perfectly still, letting my muscles ease into the stretch. I’m standing more still than I will be all day, just for a few quiet moments.

Other times, when I look at the calendar, I start to hyperventilate slightly. I freak out about how much I have to do each day and curse my foolishness for this project I’m involved in or that committee I’ve agreed to form, AGAIN. But when I stretch my legs and stare at my calendar, I don’t freak out. I don’t feel my heart beat faster with the dread of all I have to do. I just stare, passively, calmly, as if the calendar mapped out someone else’s life.

I know all of that frenzy will be there no matter what, day after day. That will never change. But that worry is all for later. Because now I have something important to do. Something for myself, for my health, for my mind and, ultimately, for my family. I have to run.

For now, that’s all I need to do. I don’t need to plan a meeting or make a meal or fold laundry. I only have to run.

All the rest can wait.

And if having that feeling three or four times a week isn’t motivation enough to run, I really don’t know what is.

in the long run, torture is actually good for us

In his memoir “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” novelist Haruki Murakami casually reveals that his body is the type which responds positively to lots of food and little exercise.In his case positive means higher numbers on the bathroom scale.

I know what you are thinking: gee, that sounds familiar.

Murakami continues by saying his wife is just the opposite. She eats -- no matter what or how much -- and she stays slim. Yeah, we all know one of those. I saw her in the gym, just the other day. (And for the record, she wasn’t exercising. Just picking up the boyfriend.)

But back to my point: Murakami lives his life, writes his books, eats as mindfully of his belly as he can…and he runs six miles a day.

Poor guy, we sniff, mentally photoshopping our own scowling faces onto his body. Here he is, sweating and toiling on the road each day while his wife eats bon bons and frets because her size twos are too big to belt.

Life is so unfair.

How is it that some body types actually boost metabolism by consuming MORE calories? We know where this is going, and quick: Murakami will no doubt finish out the pages reeling off a zillion examples of the injustices which taunt the endomorph. Huh. I could have written this chapter myself.

Murakami says those “lucky ones” who don’t gain weight easily don’t need to exercise in order to stay slim. “There can’t be many of them who would go out of their way to take these troublesome measures when they don’t need to,” he says. True enough.

Yet the next paragraph is as refreshing as a low-calorie mint-and-melon smoothie. (Fellow endomorphs, listen up.) Those skinny people who don’t exercise? Their physical strength deteriorates as they age. And, because they have no reason to exercise to shave off pounds, they aren’t doing squat to counteract it!

We softies and roundies, on the other hand, have been exercising all along, fighting the bulge … and keeping ourselves young in the process. Fifty years from now, we endomorphs will be as spry as spring chickens, our joints well lubricated from decades of effort and sweat. And, hopefully, our minds will be sharp and nimble, too.

What seems so very unjust right now will be oh, so sweet in those octogenarian years. Just you wait.

We’ll just have to remember to be kind to those “skinny folks” we fantasized about taking down all those years ago. Yeah, sure we will.

hybrids are very quiet when they creep up on you

There are a lot of strong feelings in the running community about iPods. Many certified courses don't allow runners to wear headphones, saying "runners should be alert and aware of their surroundings at all times."

Personally, I can run without music. But I really prefer to run with music. I even play a little game with myself and use my iPod as a reward for getting through the most difficult first couple miles of a run. I huff and pant and grimace, all the while reminding myself that when I get to two miles, or three, I can have my precious iPod.

I'm like a junkie waiting for her fix.

But music does make the second half of my run so much more enjoyable. Or maybe just getting through that tough first part --- where my body is fighting me for all its worth to stop, turn around and walk straight home, shut the door to my house and never come out again until I promise to cease such foolish abuse --- is reward enough.

By comparison, the rest is a piece of cake.

At any rate, I really do get giddy when the time comes to unfurl my green headphones from around my equally green nano, squint at the ever so tiny R or L to figure out which bud goes in which ear (does it really matter, anyway?) and get that click wheel moving.

Ahhhh. It's like a cool drink of water.

And that's what this blog is for me. A refreshing look at running, a recounting of the pains and the joys of every step. There's always something new. Hopefully, my words will be as reviving for you as they are for me. Join in. Tell me what you love (and hate) about running.

Writing with your feet is optional.