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two plates

I was quaffing beers with a buddy the other night down at the Well.  The conversation turned to addiction.  I can speak to addiction.  My running is over the top.  Clearly.  This is my 360th running story out of a little over 500 posts in this blog.  But my problem is much worse than what my writing diversion indicates.  The massive miles I ran last summer put me past the point of no return.  I’m not happy now with anything less than 10 miles.  I avoid meeting up for happy hour with friends.  I leave cooking dinner to Karen.  I live for each work day to end so I can disconnect that VPN and head out onto the LoBo Trail.  I think of little else.

This photo of me glaring at Brittany captures me trying to ignore my kids while I extend my narcissism from a long run to dining alone on a steak and potato.  If anything is more excessive than the two plates, it’s that pile of kosher sea salt next to my ribeye.

The hardest part of my hamstring injuries was not running in December.  Then only mostly running for short 3 milers in January.  I’m back now though.  My right leg is about 95% and my left is maybe 65% healed.  I can’t run fast yet but I can run long again.  I went out with the thought of running 12 today but couldn’t stop and completed 15 miles.

I know I’m addicted.  I consciously feel the emotional pull.  There’s no better feeling.  It’s like a two hour orgasm.  Who could resist that?  Quitting my addiction would be like trying to step off this planet’s orbit.  Even if I had a rocket, I don’t want to quit.  I don’t know if that makes me a bad person or really much different from half my friends and neighbors.  I have friends with serious injuries and illness.  Knee surgeries.  Arthritis.  Some should be bed ridden quite frankly but that’s now how they think.

I’m no different.  I hope God allows me to run forever.  I wouldn’t mind leaving this world on a trail run.  I’ve watched slow death.  I’ve cradled sudden death in my arms.  Take me out after cresting a hill.  Leave my eyes open to watch the Colorado sun set over the Indian Peaks.  Leave my corpse in the middle of the trail to force mountain bikers to dismount.  One last spiteful moment.  And let my soul continue to run forever with angels through fields of alpine Buttercups.  I’d be happy with that.