With my body anyways. Medical-book pains assaulted every square inch of gut--that Tuesday spent in bed from a flu detracted its claws with tinkling finaliity. Running! I must run more.
I must run, from
every little thing that bothers me about this universe, there's really
no other way to cope but to keep moving. And you learn that on the road.
It's the kind of get-up-get-up-get-up-now that has you focusing on
yourself, on stretching that muscle, moving that leg, lifting that other
leg, slapping the concrete, chopping the air. In the real world it's
easy to pretend to keep moving when it's really just variants of
Don't get it now, but try running. Or anything,
actually, that requires you to moooove it. I'm not quite in tune with my
body, so when it starts talking to me it tells me a great many things.
It says, you have great shoulders, man, just right for the arms to keep
slicing the air without bumping into your boobs, which, by the way, are
just the perfect size to never get in the way, or to hurt in a
show-stopping manner. It says, man, you should hunt down and kiss that
therapist who fixed your foot, which used to harbor this secret pain for
years, a pain you sort of just accepted as a minor inconvenience until
one day it's gone and now walking is like walking on the treadmill:
effortless, almost frictionless, easy.
It says, man, your lungs
have a history on all their own, years of bronco-pneumonia (reverse
asthma) and nebulizers and no-aircon buses and they're still there.
Hard-up and struggling but, man, they're working overtime and they're
loving it. Air!, they say, there are cells in there that haven't gotten
as much oxygen as they do when you run.
It say, man, your blood's
been waiting for years to feel alive again. Everything else--that job
change, that brush with forever, that post-tragedy despair--all that
turns figurative. This, this is breathing again.