When I Run

When I run, the possibilities are endless. My head is clear. When I begin, the treadmill faces a window of darkness. It is cold. I end with the start of morning. A pale blue sky opens up with tall, tall, trees silhouetted in black. The sun is not out when I am done. Early is good.

I feel good when I run. I’ll take a sweaty face over a foundation-slathered one. I need to run.

I write screenplays in my head when I run. Brilliant actors read from my script. The cinematography is crisp and real. It pulls the audience from reality. I jot down ideas to write my screenplay. Put them in a place for later. The little sheets of paper on the ledge next to me are scribbled with writing only I can read.

I think of those I haven’t seen in a while. I scribble down their names. I look forward to making plans.

I can’t run without music. It takes me to places I haven’t been and those that I have. The AIDS Rides = “Sunchyme.” I rode my bike for miles and miles and miles. Met amazing people. I was Bianchi Girl. My boyfriend was my bike.

Sad, melancholy tunes make me think. They make me run harder. I remember that I am blessed to be able to run.

I think about life when I run. The stupid, ridiculous little things are filtered out. Big and good ideas come forth. The head trash is away for now -- far, far away, as my feet hit the ground. My head is wonderfully clear. Positive, good thoughts are free-flowing. I can do anything.

I stop the fast pace, slow to a walk. I breathe the best breaths of the day. My lungs are clear.

I return to life refreshed.

Better for my husband. Better for my kids.

Better for me.

And then I will run again. And I cannot wait.