I'm a procrastinator by nature. I will do anything to avoid a task I find less than stimulating, whether it's crafting a difficult email, taking the car to get the oil changed or putting away my laundry.
I'm the same way with running. I'm usually good about getting my runs in, but I purposely avoid certain routes that I know are challenging. Namely, Bohler Road.
In the past two years, I've come a long way with my running and have learned to tackle some pretty substantial hills. Cardiac Hill? Easy. Johnson Ferry Road? A breeze.
But Bohler Road has been my nemesis. A half mile of pure, inclined hell. The last time I ran that route was back in June, and I bonked so hard I walked the two miles home and seriously contemplated calling a friend to pick me up. Granted, I was hungover and it was 88 degrees outside, which probably contributed to my struggle. But mentally, I couldn't bring myself to conquer it again, for fear of failure. Until today.
You see, three weeks ago, a friend of mine was hit by a car while out for her morning run. The same breezy routine repeated by thousands of runners across the country, but with a nightmarish ending. Two weeks in a coma. Still unable to speak or eat or walk. Months, possibly years of rehabilitation ahead of her.
It makes me scared, sad and hopeless. What can you say or do to possibly heal that type of wound? To try to make sense of such a random, senseless occurence?
For me, the only thing I know how to do, the only thing I can do, is run. And run with a vengeance. Safely and alertly, but with strength and purpose.
And run I did. Up that damn hill. It wasn't fast, and it wasn't pretty, but I did it. And was grateful for the opportunity to do so.