I didn’t go far enough for an endorphin kick, but the two miles I ran on the beach this morning still felt pretty damn fine. This is just about my favorite run anywhere, made sweeter by my rebound from yesterday’s debacle. I was in my own world; the fog was so thick I couldn’t see the dunes. It was like being wrapped in a warm, wet blanket.
It’s tempting to posit a natural connection between spirituality and running. Even at the amateur level, running is predicated on long periods of isolation, meditative rhythm, and neurological deoxygenation (if you go far enough), which can take the mind to interesting places. It means many things to me, but right now it means I’m well enough to do something I love. When I run I go inside myself, I think, I pray, I simply enjoy the body I’ve been given. There’s a great line in the movie, “Chariots of Fire,” where the character playing Eric Liddell says, “I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel his pleasure.” I may not be very fast (or “fahst” as a good Scotsman would say), but I do regularly feel God’s pleasure when I run. There must be something about its simplicity that he commends.
A good run makes for a good day.