Every morning as the sun comes up in Sydney,there are thousands of people running. Their pace and intentions vary. For some it is purely for athletic or aesthetic purposes. For others like myself, they are running to live.
Growing up in Belfast, when I had a problem, whether it was personal, public or more often than not academic, I would run. Always alone, and when I left the house panicked and upset, I would increase the pace to the point where my mind’s only focus could be getting oxygen into screaming lungs. The orange street lamps whisked past me, as I ran with no direction in mind, my only goal being returning home calm.
Today, I do the same. My mother was a talented middle distance runner, who broke school records. Unfortunately, I never inherited that talent, the only thing I care to break is my own thought processes.
Running is mechanical and at times highly mundane. Its simplicity comes in the fact that you need very little to do it. A pair of trainers and a clear piece of road. Most of us are blessed with bodies that can move, and this is the greatest gift that we have been furnished with. Nothing can extol this gift greater than running to the point of exhaustion.
I find that running defines my life. It is a constant companion that never provided any real solution, but always seemed to understand. Rarely, when you get into a rhythm where your legs, heart and mind are in sequence, there are few things that feel more beautifully natural in your body.
They say you should never run away from problems, I have been my whole life and I don’t intend to stop now.