If I could no longer run, I’d curse, slam doors, and spit vinegar.
Then, hopefully, I’d understand that it’s not the running that I truly love; it’s how running makes me feel: powerful and alive. The magic of running isn’t found in biomechanics, it’s in the wild-animal energy I feel hurtling down wooded trails with friends; it’s in the gasping, burning, satisfying fatigue I feel when I surge past that stranger in the blue singlet at the finish line; it’s in the nod from another runner on a quiet Sunday morning, telling me silently, I know you; you are one of us.
If I couldn’t run, I would unearth that same magic elsewhere, finding it, perhaps, in the different yet familiar strain of muscle against gears and wheels, as I devour asphalt and race city buses, feeling the exhilaration of sweat once again.
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