I was once a badass runner
whose body was his slave
I’d run or walk for hours
and eat pasta by the pound
I could run through a wall
or, failing that
I could run around it
strong legs bearing me ever on
hollow cheeks, clear eyes
was possessed by a quest
ever listening to the silent song
every part of my life
the beat driving me forward
these memories visit me
walking by the Home Depot,
seeing a restaurant, feeling the rain
I’m afraid I’ll never get over this
eternally pining for the past
humming “Glory Days” with wry smile
because that memory is selective
deceptive
telling half-truths
indulging exaggerations
that old me walked tall, but cast a long
shadow: selfish, obsessive, mired in depression
running away from sadness
did I find it there,
laying in the grass in Chicago
blissed out of my addled brain
the ultimate arrival?
or did I taste something
that will forever dwell
at the back of my mouth
a sweet reminder that can turn bitter
Posted in: Running
im remembering warming up in the workout room. good times.
looking forward to pres. day, running will forever taste like chili.
I can relate to some of this — metaphorically, of course. The remembering ‘the good ol’ days,’ yet knowing the self-centeredness and selectiveness of it all.
But I have to say, Mike, I still think of you as This Guy. You are, and will always be, a mighty marathon runner in my book!
ALWAYS a badass with me!
Beautiful, Mike! I can really relate to the emotions you’re expressing. I was never a great runner, but I loved to run, and I felt good about being active. And then “life” happens…