I still crack up at the way mildly-retarded Forrest Gump told Jenny that he had been running. Now, granted, the man was a little nutso for running non-stop for who knows how long. And perhaps we runners are mildly retarded in general. However, I love this little happy place in which I find running cathartic, therapeutic, and **GASP** fun. My running is mine all mine. No little people allowed.I have never come up with fabulous, big-cash slogans like "Sh** happens" when I am running, but I do gain access to a special piece of myself when I am pounding the pavement. As a mom, I have discovered that although I have not lost certain parts of me as a woman, they seem to be misplaced. Creativity. Meditation. Quiet spirit. Smarts. Yeah, I used to actually be smart. Here's the cool thing, though. When I am running, my blood pumping and my lungs expanding, I am transported to the place where I feel the most myself. It's magical. Spiritual.
Forrest ran to deal with pain and loss. Whether dealing with post-partum hormonal hell or pervasive, debilitating depression, I know deep in my heart that my running has time and again saved me. Forrest stopped because he was tired. I will stop when I am dead.
