This morning was better, as it turns out. It was really foggy, but I actually like the fog. Dark clouds that are higher up in the atmosphere make things gloomy, but I think fog is quite lovely in its misty, shroudy way. And everything goes really silent during a fog too, despite the continuance of human activity, traffic, etc. Ever notice how a cold-weather fog or a snowstorm makes the entire outdoors seem really still? Weird, isn't it? It's a bit spooky—especially when you're deep into the park at 7 a.m. with no-one else around—but I love it.
I ran about 5 miles and loved every step. I hadn't run in five days, because I was ill last Monday, so I wanted to give my body a good rest. It seems that rest was all I needed because my legs just moved like engine pistons! I was burning rubber, something I shouldn't do as I need to make my sneakers last. Credit crunch and all, lol! But I don't care, if I sense that I can be faster than usual, I go all out.
I love to run, not just because it's my trapped-in-a-human-body equivalent of flying, but the stress-release factor just can't be beat. Yeah, swimming hard, walloping a punch-bag, martial arts, fast dancing: any good form of aerobic exercise is great for stress release too. But running really tests you, especially when both speed and distance (endurance) comes into it. Once you get those endorphins flowing, you just feel great. Honestly, you just drift along, keeping a steady pace, and lose yourself in thought.
I admit, there's a bit of a conceited gesture in running too, because you're doing something that other people nearly faint at the thought of. Because most people aren't runners, they regard you as something special. They may hate you, think you're a pain in the ass, be jealous of you, envy the way you look in tights—or so I like to believe!—or the sculpted shape of your legs, think you're "too thin," or whatever. See, I don't care if the people I pass by, either on the sidewalk or from their cars, loathe me the moment they spot me in my stride. I get off on it. The knowledge that I'm dedicated to something, something healthy, is a very real source of personal pride.
And this, of course, is how I feel as a dragon. I am above humanity. I have to take part in it, but I never feel a part of it. I may love human activities, inventions and creations like music, baseball, comedy, etc., and that's a tad hypocritical of me, I know. But I won't deny for one moment that running is my way of letting the bulk of society know: "Hey, I'm not like you, because you could never drag your ass out of bed at 6 or 7 on a 35-degree morning and pound the pavement (or asphalt, or gravel) for a distance of 4 or 5 miles the way I do. And you know what? I'm glad. I don't smoke, drink heavily or eat loads of fatty foods. I'm not causing any harm to my heart, not blackening my lungs nor clogging my arteries. My idea of recreating is not sitting my ass on the sofa, in front of the TV for hours and hours. I don't have the experience of saying, 'Well, here's another pair of jeans that don't fit me anymore. Oh well, time to just wear sweat pants!' I don't wheeze and cough everytime I have to walk up a hill. I'm healthy, I'm fit, I've got will power. So hate me all you like, because I sure as hell wouldn't want to be like you!"
Slobby, slobby humans.
I will never stop running. I love it too much for a variety of reasons. I will be one of these guys you read about who drop dead during the middle of a jog when they're 85 years of age, and when that happens, you can laugh at me all you like. But in the meantime, keep dreaming about possessing the sort of thighs that I've got.
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perspedragon's journal
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