Gazing out the portside window of the multi-ton leviathan jetting at over 500mph across the continent, I’ve come to realize just how quickly time is passing by. The endless minutes between two delayed flights after a week long vacation in California have opened my eyes and allowed me to contemplate my life with an introspective lens. Just what memories accumulated in the past Olympiad do I truly cherish? How much time have I spent on the wrong road, or perhaps in the wrong lane? A sad feeling washed over me as I gazed down upon the city of Boulder, where a few short years ago I ran in my first Big XII Outdoor Track meet. I realized that city marked the beginning of my demise, and as I continue to scrutinize the details packed in the three years that have passed since that moment, I struggle to find justification for all the pain and hardship I’ve endured. Sure, the path I chose was my calling, and I believe wholeheartedly that if placed in the same predicament I would no doubt repeat my former escapades, yet it all seems so fruitless. I can’t help feeling that it was all a blur of disappointment atop a mountain of unnecessary work and mental anguish. The path I have chosen was far from the easy road, and I can take solace in the fact that it has made me a greater person. But as I grow older, what once seemed integral to my existence has begun to fade away; the flames of my desire smoldering to embers.
Never has this feeling been more evident than on vacation, where days of sun and sand slow my frantic pace, melting the feeling of persistence, and replacing it with one of well-deserved laziness. I yearn for the day where running is no longer a chore, but a necessity on a whole new level. My once daily routine will, in a short year, no longer be mandatory, and that fact is unbelievably hard to grasp. There’s so much left undone, and only three seasons left to achieve my life-long dream. Therein lies the root of my insomnia.
Apart from the feeling of remorse for the physical ailments and mental woes bestowed upon me by years of pushing my body past its limits is an overwhelming feeling to be great. In times of epic laziness, usually a few beers deep, the disciplined runner rears his ugly head to set me on a crash course to fitness. An overwhelming sense of desire morphs my mood from pessimist to masochist, as I long to train my body into the ground and emerge from the dust a chiseled athlete fit to set the track ablaze. This feeling is hard to corral, but summer grants the unique property of hitting the reset button. Monstrous attitude changes require routine, and endless summer days supply the ample amount of sacred time with which to mold myself from couch potato to division 1 athlete.
As my 747 approaches St. Louis, the memories of my great vacation are mirroring my former life. The past few months my life has been up in the air, but when the rubber finally hits the tarmac and my G rolls back into Columbia I am a changed man. Greatness requires drastic sacrifice, and I have given way too many years of my life drowning in a pool of half-assed monotony. No longer will school or social life spread me too thin. However, I’m making this post as my mantra, putting down in writing what I need to see to carry on with my emotionally and physically draining task.
I am a runner. Nothing can stand in my way.
In the million steps I will take from now until next year at this time, my only hope is to have no regrets. This is my last go around, and in 12 months, the previous statement no longer applies to me. For too long have I said that running is my life, while failing to live as a runner. No longer. Watch out, it’s almost my time to shine.
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