Life on the Streets

The other day I take my run down to the streets. I'm dressed to the nines in my new, non-rotton cotton, synthetic fabric, moisture wicking gear. I've got my hydration belt and entertainment sysyem strapped around my waist (some say it resembles a fanny pack, I say, shut up). I've got my new $100+ kicks laced up tight, and I'm on my way. I am an athlete (or at least I really look like one). I got Jay Z on the ipod and I'm raring to go. I take off from the front of my house like Flo Jo in '92. By the team I reach the end of my block, my heart is about to explode out of my chest. What the hell just happend? I've been running on my treadmill for months with ease and grace, and now I'm running like I'm trying to catch the ice cream truck. It makes no sense to my form is all jacked up. I then realize that the treadmill does all my form for me. It conveyor belt moves, so I move. At 6.0, I move like I'm running 6.0. If it's too fast, I turn it down. If it's too slow, I speed it up. Really it's that simple. On the street, I run too fast, I have a heart attack and lie dead in the street. I run too slow, a kid on a tri-cycle passes me up. It's that simple, really. I realize that I have been conditioned to respond to the machine, rather than my body. It is at this moment that I begin to doubt my abilities to actually run the marathon. I am transported back to that awkward girl in highschool who thought that the desire to run was all I needed, rather than the talent. I actually stood on the end of my block with a stupid tear welling up in my eye.

I must admit, I undersetimated what the streets would do to me. I was a pampered treadmill princess, introduced to the thuggery of the street. There are no shock absorbers in the side walk. You feel each and every pound of the pavement. That cold breeze is going under my shirt and introducing itself to my body. There are no pause buttons or fuzzy comforts. It's just you and the street. It's when you determine whether you are stronger than the discomfort, or whether you lie down in the middle of the sidewalk and feign a faint. I've been there and done that. It's been 20 years since I allowed myself to be defined by futile efforts to impress others. That day I faked it, haunts me on every one. It haunts me that I simopy stopped moving. I stopped moving. My life, has never been easy, but I've always kept moving. I realized on this first day on the street, that know matter how much new equipment I wore, it would mean nothing if I stopped moving. So, I slowed my ass down, and let the kid on the tri-cycle pass me up, but I kept moving. I kept moving from one block to the next, until I reached 3 miles. 3 street miles. My legs were sore, my hair sweated out, and I looked like I went 12 rounds with Iron Mike. But I did it. The next day I ran 3.5, and the next time I did 4 more. It's never easy, and I can't say that I always love it. I can say, I always keep it moving!