What was left of a full moon
Peeked through a hodgepodge of clouds
Making the night kind of light.
Before me were hills, lots of hills,
Some the provenience of the good mother
Others clearly residing in my tormented dominion.
I swung my legs back and forth attempting to loosen
Both hamstrings and apathy
For I’ve lost a drive to reclaim youthful distances.
Clearly, the hills would have to be conquered,
Especially, the mental ones,
If the run would be of any benefit.
So in the emerging light of morning
I took off with steps so awkward
That doubt was barking right away.
The first hill, at least from the good mother,
Rose quickly and with a sharp incline
That drove my heart rate up.
Thoughts of demons past, the ones that never go away,
Brought their sniping memories in force
Somehow I dodged their bullets and headed downhill to the pond.
Where the second hill rose for nearly a mile,
A steep incline in the middle brought to surface naysayers,
The self-generated angry thoughts questioning purpose and pride.
Somehow I ran away from those, too.
Through an abandoned lot, past the beer distributor, by the social club,
And heading down the long hill, I found my way.
Running on the railroad tracks, fighting the rocks,
Worrying about a train,
Just chugging along towards the rising sun in the east.
The little spur changed my negativity,
Putting me on track to accept another long hill,
One I would have never tried twenty minutes prior.
Few cars were out this early,
The road was typical Pennsylvania with few places to bail,
But it’s peak called out my doubt, challenged my commitment.
Game on, lean it, chopping steps,
Breathe, breathe, breathe,
Relax, breath, relax…done.
It’s there, at the top of McFarlan
Where the consequences of training came to light,
All the miles, all the meals, all the meditations.
I’m ready for this race,
Ready to get out there, turn off my brain, and just run.
Ready to be done.
The rest of this run was mostly a downhill cruise,
Until I got back to other side of hill number one,
The one with the demons howling their made up speech.
I saw them there again, Thing 1 and Thing 2,
Each taunting, each trying to add tension to my easy going way,
I blasted them with southern styled middle fingers and smiled.
Maybe it was Emerson who suggested I rely on me,
Perhaps this early run, when the moon and mood conspired against me
Was the sort of resurrection I needed before this marathon.
I willed it.
I got it.
Now, it’s up to me to do something with these realizations.