And I Ran
It was the fastest I'd gone without some sort of engine propelling me in almost a month. It hurt and caused for me to feel very stiff. My ankle had yet to really pitch and bend since the accident and it was locked in place as if I had some sort of solid prosthetic leg. I ran with a limp that made Forest Gump look as graceful as the Duke of Buckingham. I was surely a ghastly sight and will surely be in pain tomorrow morning, but the liberation was worth it. I ran halfway around the small joke of buildings that comprise my apartment complex, which my amount to a quarter mile including embellishment. I finished with a rushed rhythm of respiration that resembled what my normal state of fatigue would be after a 3+ mile run and I pre-stretched as I normally would for a 6+ mile run. I in no way displayed any of the traits typical of an inveterate runner except for the fact that I ran, and I loved every second of it.
I had not yet really cried after the accident. There were a few tears shed when my dad showed up from San Antonio in the emergency room, but if I ever came close to crying after that, it would have been provoked by anger and not self-pity. But tonight, I wept for a different reason. I wept because it was the first time I was really happy since September 14 and because I am once again what you could call a "mobile" person. I may not be anywhere close to a full recovery yet, but there is something you must understand. One of the things I have been the most proud of in my life is my physical capability. I have strived to maintain and improve it for as long as I can remember and have very many reasons for doing this. Mobility is something I count on on a daily basis. I am dependent on agility. I am reliant on activity. I find fulfillment in dexterity. Sometimes, when nobody is looking, I'll jump down a small flight of stairs or slide down a handrail. I'll hurdle over a bench or climb up in a tree. I'll turn free time and public structures in a thing of recreation and play. Last week, I sat at a picnic table and watched as some high-school kids rolled by on their skateboards. I thought, 'fuck them', bitterly and tried to ignore the fact that I had two untouched skateboards leaning against the wall in my bedroom at my apartment. When I got home, I hid them out of sight in the back of my closet; 'fuck them'.
But tonight I engaged in what I choose to consider running. If you call it hobbling, go to hell. If you would deem it limping, lick my balls. As a matter of fact, if you try to call it anything BUT running, I'll tell you this: Come back and see me at the end of the month, bitch.
I had not yet really cried after the accident. There were a few tears shed when my dad showed up from San Antonio in the emergency room, but if I ever came close to crying after that, it would have been provoked by anger and not self-pity. But tonight, I wept for a different reason. I wept because it was the first time I was really happy since September 14 and because I am once again what you could call a "mobile" person. I may not be anywhere close to a full recovery yet, but there is something you must understand. One of the things I have been the most proud of in my life is my physical capability. I have strived to maintain and improve it for as long as I can remember and have very many reasons for doing this. Mobility is something I count on on a daily basis. I am dependent on agility. I am reliant on activity. I find fulfillment in dexterity. Sometimes, when nobody is looking, I'll jump down a small flight of stairs or slide down a handrail. I'll hurdle over a bench or climb up in a tree. I'll turn free time and public structures in a thing of recreation and play. Last week, I sat at a picnic table and watched as some high-school kids rolled by on their skateboards. I thought, 'fuck them', bitterly and tried to ignore the fact that I had two untouched skateboards leaning against the wall in my bedroom at my apartment. When I got home, I hid them out of sight in the back of my closet; 'fuck them'.
But tonight I engaged in what I choose to consider running. If you call it hobbling, go to hell. If you would deem it limping, lick my balls. As a matter of fact, if you try to call it anything BUT running, I'll tell you this: Come back and see me at the end of the month, bitch.