For the past 20 years, my personal release has always been running.
I’m not naturally fast—I’ve never won a race.
I also don’t look like you’re typical runner—I’m not long and lean, rather, I look exactly like I was built for the sport that was my first love: gymnastics. Yet, 5-nothing and muscular, I run.
I’ve run 5Ks. I’ve run 100Ks. Well, one 100K.
I’ve done three-day races in the wilds of Arkansas. (And gotten hopelessly lost in the wilds of Arkansas…make your “Deliverance” jokes in the comments section.)
I’ve run 18 miles through the Pyrenees with nothing but a granola bar, a friend and a disposable camera for when we reached the border of Spain and France. We also didn’t have a plan as to how to make it back to our hotel and hitched a ride with a French family who played the English-language portions of a Celine Dion CD for us and gave us taffy to chew on between our English/Spanish/French exclamations of thanks.
Yes, even when I totally screw up, running is a release for me.
I know it’s not this way for everyone. Most people I know hate running. Many cite it as punishment for bungled volleyball practices and lost football games.
But that’s just fine.
That leaves more miles for me.