Anyone who read that previous post and expected an update yesterday clearly did not absorb it. I’m a runner.

Runner by nature.
Runner by choice.

Even ran track in high school until I ran away from that in favor of drivers ed. A license gave me the freedom to run farther than ever before.

This never just sprung up overnight, I’ve been nomadic since I learned the meaning of the word. If you’ve met my mom or dad, you understand that I was born to keep moving.

My mom did the hurdles back in her school days, fast enough to graduate and marry before 18. She’s always had endurance. Able to withstand divorce, bankruptcy, addiction, you name it. All in the sake of her children. She’s run faster than her competition, beating out others for big jobs, proving doctors tests inaccurate, telling cancer to fuck off not with one but two diagnosises within months of each other. She still shows up to every meet even if its just to support the silly habit her daughter picked up after years of watching her place low, misstep, and trip over those same hurdles.

My dad, much like my mother gets that life is a race. Though it may not be measured in laps or time, it can be measured in things like knowledge and life experience. Likely advice from him would be to slowly, cautiously take it all in. Absorb social schematics and blunders like a sponge while keeping pace with your surroundings. Don’t lose focus, but allow yourself to wander.

He can get on my nerves but only because his words have this truth behind them that nags at me. I know they’re right because of all the shit he’s been through. All the semi-arrests, missed weekends with the kids on account of a drug binge, and the women that came and went through his revolving door was proof he’d lived a range of life. That range never would have been achieved had he not run. Sure, he may be instead toting Olympic men’s hockey medals if he hadn’t. He may be working some sleazy corporate sales job, working his way up the ladder step by step, stab in back by stab in back. Instead, he did run. He lived. He drove motorcycles, threw parties, did drugs with rock stars. Really he embodied the 80’s. It didn’t always bring him the best results but ultimately his running brought him to a tropical island where sobriety and a great gal have become his fraction of a foundation.

My genes say “run”.
My mind says “run”.
So what’s wrong with a little running?

Here I go, leaving in the AM to run off to a cabin to run from an ancient anniversary date that consumes me. All this running and I’ve still never been able to escape her.

Be back when my heels permit.