rage :: rapture

It used to be so much easier to crank out an 8 miler. To swiftly jerk that notch to 10.

Instinctively, I know it's true: there is a direct correlation between marrow-deep frustration and a long distance run. Rage can fuel a tank.

At my angriest, I'd be out there with a determined, unbreakable focus that rivaled GORE-TEX in its water and wind resistance. Another hill, another footbridge and I'd level it, bulldoze by—fervid, impassioned additions of mileage. Snot rockets firing like stray bullets into innocently arching sidewalks, or defenseless brake-lit traffic, or into my own whipping knot of ponytail.

This was pure, pulsing frustration, deep-rooted down to the core. Motivator of up-and-go psychotic jogging proportions. I called myself a runner but I was running for all the wrong reasons. An exercise in releasing rage in the guise of health and fitness.

(And you're probably wondering, What. What made you so angry? It was any number of things. The wanting to be taken out to dinner and receiving a 2 am phone call instead. Three years on the college soccer team mostly relegated to the bench. That professor who so sensitively advised "You need to break out of the conditional tense, all these sentences driven by an 'I would' and 'I could'"—a resonating sign of how I wanted to be living, or more like, clearly, how I wasn't.)

Now, things are different. Amazing what happiness does. I start the weekend with John and the New York Times and a fresh zest of lemon in a midday Tom Collins. I've reclaimed the confidence to write. My frustrations are quick to fade and anger, once so all-consuming, is something to squash instead of carry for miles. In the wide, gentle band of afternoon I'm out there striding in the New Year air, gripping joy like a water bottle.

Only, here's the thing, and instinctively, I know it's true: contentment is not conducive to long distance running. Comfort can soothe the loins.

So I've been covering distance enough to look good in the dark. Signing up for 5Ks that offer free beer and chowder afterward. I've been Photoshopping saturation into my face as evidence of effort in every post-race photo I've taken.

All of this leading up to the past couple weeks and why they've been such a challenge. God love her, Ashley convinced me to sign up for a half marathon on the Cape. February 28th. A dead of winter 13.1-miler.

Last night we ran 6.5 miles, steady, talking as we went. Sometimes the roads were black-iced and difficult to traverse. The wind by the water was nothing more complicated than cold. The streetlights in harsh relief in the snow, like stakes in the heart of the earth if you were to let your mind wander to a darker place.

I honestly wasn't looking forward to this jog. But as we were stomping over the snow near MIT I couldn't help but think, How healthy. And how inspiring to have this kind of friend, someone who helps you forget what a struggle this is.

It's a lesson that I don't have to be batshit angry to go the distance. I'm learning to run for better reasons. For something closer to fitness of body and mind, and spirit.