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It is a beautiful Saturday afternoon in Vermont. I ran my long run today. Brilliant sunshine, cool breeze, and rolling hills. Truly idyllic. Past the cows that I actually talk to as I go by, as they walk along the fence as though escorting me down the yard. Their expression is one of incredulity – it is as though they are asking me: “Why are you doing this?” I think I am projecting….
I really don’t like to run….just putting it out there. I run. And I run often. I run at least three times during the week. And I have even gotten to the point of running a long run (for me) on the weekends of at least six miles or so. But, I don’t like running.
I like the idea of running. I like thinking of myself as a runner. I like the way I feel after a run. I like the cool clothes I have to run in. I like that I can rationalize that I ran off enough calories to drink my one Saturday night beer guilt-free.
But I don’t like to run. But I run.
Running was always an ancillary activity for me. I ran to get in shape for whatever else it was that I was doing. But, now running is an end in and of itself; a validation.
After my run today I sat down in the grass, turned my music up really loud, and cried. It was a moment, and I don’t allow myself many. It goes back to one of the reasons I don’t like to run. It gives me time to think!
Saturday afternoon a year ago, I was just out of surgery, in ICU, intubated, with a multitude of tubes, and an external pacemaker literally coming out of my chest. I had a new aortic valve, one to replace the one that had ruptured on just such an uneventful run days before.
Read the rest of Maggie's experience
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