thispresentsojourn

Over the past month, I’ve been running at least six out of seven days of the week, and have found it very rewarding on a number of levels.  For the better part of my existence, physical exercise has been a pillar among my disciplines (of course I don’t think it can be called that in the years before eighteen).

Today was like any other.  I found my running shorts (which I hope none of my friends should ever have to see) a tanktop, and those running shoes which are so graciously buoyant on a great variety of surfaces.

After suiting up, I set out for Westshore Drive — which ultimately leads past a few stop signs to White Rock Road and then Lawther — the famous road which circles White Rock Lake and plays host to some of the most expensive homes in Dallas.  But of course that’s not the matter.

Just beneath the willow tree I began my run on towards the spillway, which, indifferent to my changing and growing person remains as constant as I remember it in the late winter months of 2007.

My strides are becoming more confident, my breathing more consistent, and my resilience ever-increasing. Since I don’t run with my head between an iPod, I’ve developed in the past three years all sorts of little games to keep me occupied while my mind explores things deeper, systematizing what might and leaving afloat what shouldn’t.

The most common among these includes one aural — namely on the sometimes symmetrical connection between breathing and steps taking, and I think this particular game will perhaps never be loosed if only for the short-term focus it provides.  (Another which involves the specific numbering of steps between each division of the concrete barrier above the spillway is a less-practiced type, but no less helpful to the fulfillment of specific goals.)

Recently, a few rowing teams from a few select private schools have been paddling and pacing along the side of the spillway during my afternoon runs, and on top of my once-established rhythms of breathing and counting steps has been superceded by a race with those in the water.  Much of why I’m able to keep up or even consider it a race is that they are a bit far off and the distance provides the illusion that our speed is comparable, though I know theirs is much greater.

It’s 100º today, and I’ve mustered the courage to continue in the discipline regardless of the heat (while taking special measures towards to find the equilibriums among hydration and rest.  Of course I shower more often too, but that’s beside the point, I think).

Each lap on the top of the spillway is somewhere between 3/10 of a mile and 1/3 of a mile, and so I usually round up in this regard, which essentially means I allow myself to believe 3/10 is an equal portion to 1/3.  I’m able to justify such an allocation due to the fact that the wind is at my back on the first lap of each round and blowing fiercely at my front the second lap of each.

Finishing sweaty and not a little red from the Texas sun, I walk through the only place in the path around White Rock Lake that seems a maze, and carry on up the hill, where my car is parked in the grass, perhaps too close to the fire hydrant.  Of course any rules I’d be breaking would never be enforced by the security guard on duty who is mostly concerned with guarding his own air-conditioned comfort.

The drive back is about 4 minutes.  I’ll usually reward myself after a long run — and especially as we come deeper into the summer heat — with some sort of chilled drink on the trip home.  Ultimately I’ll return to Vickery some 45 minutes after I originally left, covered in saltsweat and a certain sense of accomplishment.  The first thing I do when I step into my apartment is make an effort to reach the shower.

Trying to remove the layer covering my torso, each day I recall that the very thing which makes the removal of the piece from my body so urgent is the very thing which keeps it still so fastened and snug.