Yellow flashy Usain Bolt-esque runners tied and I’m out the door before the morning sun peaks over the mountain-tops. Florence & The Machine rage in my ears as I begin my warm-up. Herds of cow, horse and sheep meander on the lightly dew dropped mountain searching for their mornings feast.
I am a morning runner, therefore I run.
The mountain pulls me down her slight decline for three kilometers. The salt water breeze kisses my face and I run head on into its morning freshness.
This is how I start my mornings four times a week. Every week, summer excluded.
My turn around point is a small parking area for those wishing to text, chat or play games on their mobile devices, take a pee or watch the stunning panoramic view of the Bay of Asinara.
I used to stop and take in the view, watch the ocean crash in on this stunning island oasis. However, I’ve become stronger in my runs and want to continue on.
With sneakers laced and iPod kicking out the latest Eminem, I grab my stop watch and head out the door. Beep. I’ve just started my first 6k of the week and I am totally pumped. There are no bibs, no trophies nor ribbons adoring my walls. There’s also no marathons or half marathons nor even mini marathons, heaven forbid triathlons (I look up to those who can, in awe.)
But what there is, what is the most important and crucial point for a runner, is passion. Passion to feel like your flying, passion of hear your heart beat, passion to add just one more 6k to the week. It’s exhilarating and freedom comes; and nothing else exists. Just you, the road and air exist in this moment. Believe in this moment, run.
In the corner collecting dust are five pairs of (new to old) running shoes. They have their scars and served me well. Most of the time, they are the only reason I get out of bed in the morning. They beckon me their taunts of freedom and haunt me awake with their desire to add another mile. There are plenty of times when I just throw them back under the bed, pull the comforter up and go back to sleep. Only just to taunt me further when I finally rise to the day. These days are difficult. As what I’m really aching for is a jar of Nutella, some freshly baked Sardinian bread, a few cigarettes (yes. a runner who smokes. a runner who runs to not smoke. it’s a vicious cycle,) a deep dark local red and a good Angelina Jolie flick on the tele.
They always win. Always. It never fails. It doesn’t matter how many times I try to forget them, they always win. Beep. 46:16. Not bad. But it doesn’t really matter to me what time I’ve run or how many seconds slower or faster I was this time. When I’m on the road time does not exist, and if I must walk for a millisecond well, that’s just ok too. For the only thing that truly matters is my passion for running. It’s alive. Belive in this moment, run.