Death March

I am training to get stronger on the big three: dead lift, the bench press and the almighty squat. I train these lifts at least once a week, and supplement them two other times during the week.

But the other day I went on a “long run” with one of my best friends, and work out buddy, Sean.  It was Saturday. The day opened with a torrential downpour. By the time our noon running date came it was sunny, and hot and muggy as a Guatemalan jungle, except we were in Brooklyn, so it smelled like piss.

We slogged through Prospect Park. We put one foot in front of the other. We talked. We paused for water, we walked a little, and we kept moving.

At one point Sean called it a death march.

Often on these longer runs the conversation turns to “why the fuck are we here?” That day I answered with all sincerity, because it is beautiful.

Sean grumbled back about the humidity, and the suffering of our run.

I usually could match his grumblings, I am not one for a positive outlook. But I looked up at the trees, I felt the breeze over my sweaty body, and I looked over at a dear friend and figured why would I want to be anywhere else.

Sure I could have had the same thought is we were laying on the beach sipping margaritas. But we weren’t, and even as we suffered through all 8 miles I was just happy to be alive, and able to run, and to have the time to run, to be out in the world sucking air, sweating, making my body do what it was designed to, move through space.

Working out does not have to be a slog, even when it sucks, it can actually be an amazing gift, a reminder that you are alive, every moment. This is a good thing.

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About JTP

An occasional reader, an occasional writer, an occasional podcast producer, an occasional strategist.
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