This morning out on my run I had A Moment: I was suddenly overwhelmed and bewildered by the fact that my legs, heart and lungs, despite being weary and confused about the fact that I’ve dragged them about of bed to put them through THIS, could work that hard, for that long, just for me. You simply start your run, then you stop running only when it’s over.
It reminded me of Haruki Murakami’s words in What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, which attempts to explain what goes through Murakami’s mind when he runs. It’s hard to explain to a non-runner that when you’re getting in the miles you somehow think of everything but also nothing. Sometimes for a few seconds I wonder about the twinge in my leg which is promptly forgotten about; sometimes I imagine situations, like what would happen if that bird there flew into me? But most of the time I think of nothing more than my breath and putting one foot in front of the other.
The thoughts that occur to me while running are like clouds in the sky. Clouds of all different sizes. They come and they go, while the sky remains the same sky as always. The clouds are mere guests in the sky that pass away and vanish, leaving behind the sky. The sky both exists and doesn’t exist. It has substance and at the same time doesn’t. And we merely accept that vast expanse and drink it it.
Murakami, What I Talk About When
I Talk About Running (2008)
Then when I ran past Old Trafford, and with it being a game day and all, its fried-onion smells and chanting fan sounds. Then the moment was lost. But still. A Moment.