Sometimes thumbholes are all you need to salvage a run.

Sometimes thumbholes are all you need to salvage a run.

 

I’ve had the pleasure of taking a few writing classes from the talented Lisa Jones, and one of things we regularly do is take a piece of great writing and use its perspective or structure as a springboard for your own thoughts.

Because These Failures are My Job by Alison Luterman is a delicious poem about when you do don’t do the things you’re supposed to do—pay attention and be present, namely, in this example—you’re actually doing your job. “It’s our job to be super imperfect,” is how Lisa explained it, and I immediately wrote that sentiment down and starred it. It’s not our job to be perfect; the intricacies of our failures are actually the reason we’re here, the job we’re supposed to do. Makes life—and running—feel a lot less heavy.

On a recent run—a six-miler around my hood—I made failure my job. Not consciously, but it was just one of those why-do-I-try-so-hard-and-care-so-much runs that leaves me more empty than filled up.

On my run today, I failed to notice the leaves. The yellow mustard ones, the orange ones, the maples whose veins protrude from their leathery skin.

On my run today, my head didn’t stay where my feet were. I made a grocery list (don’t forget bananas again!); I lamented good friends I feel like I’ve permanently lost touch with; I wondered if my daughter’s hot dog consumption should be minimized; I pondered if the drum set we just bought my son will actually be a wise investment—or at least one I will not regret; I reminded myself to answer emails and call my mom; I wished the miles away; I planned my day and planned the rest of my life.

On my run today, I was not here now. And I didn’t greet anybody who passed me.

On my run today, I checked my GPS like an obsessive-compulsive for no apparent reason. My splits were blah, and each minute contained 300 seconds.

On my run today, my feet were not light and quick. I clomped so horse-like on the gravel path that the walkers, 30 feet in front of me, turned around as I approached them, wondering if they should get out of the way. I tried to be bird-like after they craned their necks, but really, who was I kidding?

On my run today, the middle of my back turned numb by mile three. I promised myself I would come home and stretch, then lie on the foam roller for at least five minutes to unkink some angry tendons. I didn’t.

On my run today, I couldn’t find the right song. So I used up all my fast forwards on Pandora and ended up with commercials about trading in your KIA.

On my run today, I cursed the slight uphills (ouch! lungs!) and the minor downhills (ouch! knees!). I cursed my body for being too tall, too old, too hunched, too jiggly, for having too many miles in my joints. I cursed myself for not appreciating the fresh, young legs I had for so many years.

On my run today, I thought about what I will do when I can no longer run. But I really can’t bear that thought.

With about a mile left, I realized I didn’t have to stop and take off my long sleeve shirt mid-run. Thumbholes were still snuggled into the webbing of my hands.

Ma Nature had served up perfection on a Thursday morning—and that was enough to carry me home.

What failures have been your job on a recent run?