You CAN Go Home Again
Last weekend I spent some time with my grandmother, who lives in a small town surrounded by rural country roads, farmhouses and cornfields galore. Between puzzling (that would be the verb for putting together frustratingly enormous puzzles), eating home cooked comfort food and visiting the graves of many of my deceased relatives, I had a fantastic time.
And wouldn’t you know it, I even made sure I got in a nice, long run.
There I was, all alone on a seldom traveled country road, surrounded by nothing but blue sky, outrageously talkative orioles and corn when I realized:
I’ve been here before.
I’ve BEEN HERE. BEFORE.
About 20 years ago, on a summer afternoon at my grandma’s, inspired by my dad’s running adventures and a bit of boredom, I ventured out on a country road running long. I didn’t make it very far. A couple of miles or so, but I did it. And I remember feeling very proud of myself — that I took it upon myself to go for a “long” run, in the heat, all by myself.
The accomplishment, while pretty impressive (so I thought at the time) didn’t make the running habit stick back then; but here I am now, a self-confessed running fanatic with a knack for spreading the running love, still channeling the youthful ecstasy I discovered way back as a 13-year-old.
I guess I’ve always had it in me.
And that’s a powerful truth to discover.
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