Depression

My running buddy calls it the five-mile circle. I say it's a circuitous route containing several figure eights. And, while it may seem impossible, it seems that the route is all uphill. I am certain that, at each intersection, he stopped and looked to see which way was the hilliest -- and then chose that route. Some hills are a gradual 1/4 mile or more; some are short and steep.

The only way I've found to run this thing is to just plod along one step at a time without looking ahead too far and without thinking too much. One foot in front of the other, over and over and over again. If I look too far ahead and don't see the crest of a hill, the dread of the thing becomes too much. If I think too much about the pain and the exhaustion, the weight of my body gets to be too much.

"It's all mental," my buddy says. "Just keep putting one foot in front of the other."

He always can. Not me. On the really bad days, in spite of my best efforts, all I see is the hill ahead. Energy escapes like air from a slowly leaking tire; suddenly it just isn't there. I walk. Walking is discouraging. I try to convince myself that it's better than giving up. At least when walking, the legs are still in motion. Slow motion, yes, but still moving. My spirit, however, doesn't hear. Deflated, it says, "You caved. You quit."

Today was a bad day. Today the hills loomed unendingly. Somehow I was even too exhausted to look ahead. Too exhausted even for discouragement. Another hill? So what. It is what it is. Eventually this, too, will pass. Somehow it did. Somehow today I won. Today I ran.