Those damn shoes. Six months old with barely any signs of wear. The logos on the sole still shine, brightly visible and mocking. Hell, I can even stand to leave them in my room without occasional wafts of noxious fumes. And look at the colors! Bright gold and white mesh gleam brightly with only flecks of dirt visible near the toes. They're more smug than those damn alpaca. Yet, oh how they beckon, in their miserable way. It took me 6 hours to work up the initiative to slip them on today, and only because it was the last time I could run in 2012.
I made a mistake today; I opened up the photo album from this past year. Joyous memories trapped in 5x7 moments from a lifetime ago make me smile as I deflate into sadness. Those were the days. Although only half a year since I donned my uniform for the last time, the abruptness with which my life changed still takes it's toll. One moment I'm out-kicking Big Twelve foes on the way to my first and only conference medal and the next I'm squeezing the fat rolls on my stomach as I shovel down some pizza. I still feel the sweat dripping off my elbows as I struggled down the home stretch in LA on the way to a top ten performance in the 1500 while I sit at my desk job staring at a computer screen. On each business trip as I board the plane, my mind wonders if I've packed my spikes and uniform. What a strange life I used to lead.
I leash my dog and head out the door into a slushy winter landscape of green and white patches occasionally blotted brown, each step ever more familiar. I truly couldn't say how many times I've run this trail. I'm pretty sure I was only ten the first time I ran back here, intent on beating my dad home after the three mile loop. But each step before carried me toward a goal and a dream. Where do today's steps lead? There's no more race at the end of the tunnel and no barriers to break. The ten year journey from casual jogger to elite runner has already ended on a 400 meter oval in Austin, Texas. Not even a GPS watch, P90x, and an Olympic weight set can instill the passion and dedication I once had. Strangely, the 80 mile weeks I once viewed as a burden now seem more of a shove in the right direction.
The mind of a washed-up runner is a formidable obstacle to overcome, but with a new year approaching, I can't help but be hopeful. A clean slate, a fresh running log, and a strong desire to get these damn shoes I'm wearing extra dirty may just save me from my melancholy world. So as I splash in the nastiest, muddy puddle and my dog stares at me in revulsion, I aim to write the next book in the series of my life at the turn of the year. May all my runner friends have the year they dream of in 2013.
I've been slipping through the years / my old clothes don't fit like they once did / and now they hang like ghosts / of the people I've been. -- Death Cab for Cutie
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