Saturday afternoon I ran as hard and as fast as I could until I wanted to vomit, held that pace until I wanted to pass out, then slowed down just enough and kept going until I ran out of time before motherhood required I be somewhere else. I love to make my lungs burn while simultaneously trying to lengthen my strides, pushing my short and stubby frame to do more with each step. I will never be slender, nor will anyone on the street ever look at me and assume I choose exercise over a cheeseburger and fries. I also know that nothing can calm my neurons and remind me that fear is an optional response to potential tragedy as potently as exercise.
I went for a run two days in a row this weekend, but Sunday’s run was mostly so I could feel less guilty about drinking really good beer Sunday night. Sometimes, after the adrenaline of a good run capsizes my initial fear responses and sends stress relief to every capillary I still want something to take the edge off. Beer tastes so much better when you proactively burn the calories off before you start drinking it.