Last night: On the bus, having felt miserable all day, I realize I am going to go running when I get home. I haven't run in months, and I haven't run regularly in years. There is a part of me that is really strongly resistant to it, like there is with everybody, but my ego is weirdly tied up with this. Having a treadmill would be so much easier.
There is a certain velocity to my thoughts when I've decided to do something. This is a recognizable, reliable, and repeated observation for me.
Onto the street. This area is not conducive to running, especially with toe-shoes. But there is enough grass to cheat on that it's not complete murder on my feet.
About fifteen or twenty minutes in, I'm timing my breathing to be in for four steps, out for four steps. The thought goes by to switch this up to five steps each, but I wave that away; this is already enough of a challenge for me without making it absurd for myself. I realize that I can be okay with baby steps, and SBC's voice in my head says exactly that: "Baby steps."
At about this point, I also realize that my breathing is highly syncopated, because I'm hearing it. The impact of my feet on the ground is jolting me enough that it's effecting the in-breath, so it's a very jagged intake. "Fixing it" isn't an option. All I can really do is watch it. And it cleans up eventually, but it doesn't seem surprising or amazing. Just that it became more relaxed, less jagged, less labored.
Eventually I arrive home. Some cool-down stretching, along with some internal self-judging.
Perhaps more surprising is that I will go for a run, the next night. But at this moment, I don't know that.
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