The time at which I feel, internally, the most beautiful, is ironically the time at which I probably look the ugliest on the outside. I am a runner. I love to run. But I love it not because it keeps me healthy (though this is a great bonus!) nor because it’s impressive (both on Strava and in real life).
I’ll straight up run away (pun intended) from anybody who ever mentions burning calories or says: “you get to eat loads and stay skinny!”. I run purely and simply because it makes me feel amazing. Running is when I feel alive. When my legs are moving and my feet are pounding the pavement I feel light and effortless and free. Flying down the street gives me this feeling of purity and clarity that I know I can’t find elsewhere. When I am straining and gasping for air and eking out every last bit of energy inside me I feel powerful, euphoric even.
The feeling of my heart pumping, my legs burning, my lungs screaming, can only be described as the most beautiful feeling in the world.
When I’ve finished a run and my body is completely decimated, aching all over, I feel purified and ecstatic. I know there’s a scientific explanation for all this; endorphins et cetera. But all I crave is that beautiful, wonderful feeling of moving and exhausting myself. Which makes the fact that I haven’t run properly in four months due to injury quite a challenge for me. Other forms of exercise don’t even come close to providing that beautiful running sensation.
Race photos attest that I do in fact look horrendous whilst running – think a twisted, contorted expression, wild hair, scarlet-faced and dripping with sweat. But in the moment, I could not care less. The feeling of my heart pumping, my legs burning, my lungs screaming, can only be described as the most beautiful feeling in the world.