Tuesday, 16 October 2012
I wrote this back in March. Since then, I've heard from a couple running friends how lonely a place the seawall can be, on certain days, in certain conditions. It's true. Some mornings, on early easy runs, it feels like I haven't quite gotten out of bed. The darkness and West Vancouver lights are comforting, a blanket of black and stars and the winding path is home. Other evenings, in early autumn when the light is warm and fading across third beach, but all of the people have packed up and gone home, the rock cliffs and the curves of forest tower over and I feel very small.
This was written on a day when the seawall seemed to stretch forever and all I had was too much time and too many thoughts.
Your heart is a muscle:
you break down to build up.
This is a long run and you are only at the turnaround.
The clear water shows low-tide barnacles and seaweed.
The snowline on the mountains in faded winter sun.
It is later than it seems.
This is not a pain you can exhale into,
it does not round out and grow inside your lungs.
This is not the triumphant burn at the end of a race,
not cured in one gasp for air.
There are no inspirational slogans for too many miles out on your own.
This is a day to break your heart:
the soft slap of shoes on pavement
the unsteady pump of arms
the ache in your body and
a long way back.