Indoor track

Ran inside today, for the second time this week. There was no getting around it. We had snow last night, and this morning freezing rain. By noon it had warmed up enough to be just rain, and the roads and sidewalks were covered in slush. It was run inside or don’t run at all. Even the big boys, the Boston Marathon boys, ran inside, which made me feel less of a wimp. That left only the monotony to deal with.

I’m grateful for the indoor option on a day like today, but that doesn’t make it pleasant. I go around and around that old banked track like a hamster on a wheel, breathing the stale dry air at the top of the old gymnasium, trying to find my rhythm.

It was easier today than on Wednesday. I felt better, for one thing, a little lighter, a little less duck-footed and clumsy. My new shoes felt spongy. I put myself in a sort of a trance and just ran the minutes down, where on Wednesday I was fighting it. It didn’t hurt that there was a shapely young baton twirler practicing on the deck below in short shorts and a tube top, a welcome sight at the end of every oval.

I have taken to praying when I run on the track, as a way to pass the time. Some days I pray for other people, devoting a lap to each one. I move from family to friends to enemies to special cases, accomplishing a kind of giant rosary, and sooner run out of laps than out of names. Today, though, I lacked the extra energy to be specific. I just tried to be open, receptive to whatever message God might have for me. There didn’t seem to be anything in particular, but that was okay. I was determined to be patient, even as I fretted over the monstrous lack of humility in this attitude. Me being patient with God! Ah, but God will understand, I thought. God just shakes his head and laughs at my childishness, as I sometimes laugh at Danny’s. He indulges me. He knows that I’m a helpless mess and he gives me points for trying.