Chapter Thirteen: Baggage and Addictions

I can usually go about three days without a fix.

I haven’t gone longer for over two years now.

By the third day I am a desperate haggard addict who will stop at nothing to get her hands on that release. Frantic and irritable, my only inner dialogue is a constant chant, "I have to have it, I have to have it, I HAVE to have it!"

And when I finally get it, it is exhilarating. I am literally flying. My feet barely touch the ground, my breath is rhythmic and hypnotizing, and my body and mind meld into one.

I am free.

My drug is endorphins.

I run.

Some days I am running away. It’s true. I admit. There’s a park directly in front of the window at the gym I belong to, and I soar through those evergreens and into the setting sun. Just flying away.

And every time, whatever gigantic piece of emotional baggage I had with me when I got on that treadmill, my run evaporated it. Zapped it. Melted it. (Something like Northwest Airlines does I am sure, probably a similar concept.) I am not sure where all this unwanted luggage goes, but I am constantly thinking, “What happened to that 100lb bag I brought in here with me? I am sure I was carrying it when I got on this flight?” And no, I didn’t insure it when I checked in. And no, I don’t want it back if you find it accidentally got on a flight to Albuquerque. I shouldn’t have been carrying it anyway. It was full of a bunch of crap I obviously didn’t need.

And some days I am running to something. Life has been sweet and shown great promise for a tomorrow and I run from happiness and excitement. I am running toward something, not away. And on those days I leave my flight with only the sensible carry on that I need for the journey at hand. Nothing in it but an extra tooth brush, a good book, oh, and of course, my sanity.

Without running, I am not sure how I would have gotten through the last two years of my life. I would probably be in a fetal position on the floor. Or be all hunched over from carrying around all that heavy junk we all pick up needlessly on our travels through life. (And at the very least, my ass would not look very good. Hey, running does have its benefits!)

Today I pounded out a couple miles in no time flat as the treadmill read 7.2 mph. It was all I could do not to run even faster. “The Killers” were rocking out on my iPod and beckoning me to throw down a month’s worth of crap and run away. And so I did.

A friend of mine once commented, “You’re a little on the short side. Why are you running so damn fast? You look like you’re running for your life!”

Little did he know.

I am.

7.2 baby. Just try to catch me.