First run of spring

Today, I took a moment of pure bliss to jog beside a river full from spring runoff. As the water dashed down, I heard the roar in my ears and the dull thump of my feet on the path. It was ten meditative seconds of replenishment for my soul.

That was, of course, before the searing pain in my lungs and throat.

I am a runner but you have to understand: in Newfoundland, the snow has only just melted. One cannot run outside with the winter -25C windchills. (Well, some sickos do, but there is no accounting for those weirdos who not only force themselves to breathe through balaclavas while running but also willingly negotiate ice covered sidewalks, roads narrowed by two metre-wide snow banks, and drivers who don't scrape their windows.) So, this was my first run of the year outdoors. And it's different than being on the treadmill, with no one to watch me, as my steps got narrower and narrower.

Spring in this part of Canada is about waiting for one elusive bird to sing and the masochism of the return to Standard Time. (It hurts but it feels so good.) It is also when three metre snow drifts in the backyard melt to reveal layers of near-fossilised dog poop, previously hidden by flash snow storms. And once the ground has begun to recuperate from that trauma, it is time for a jog.

The jog is a paradigm. My mind versus my body is the dichotomy. I read recently that the best way for runners to stave off shin splints, is to take smaller strides. I cling to this fact for justification when I am tempted to collapse and curl up in a ball rather than finish the last hill. Another memory that goads me on is the recollection that I ran this very same trail when I was seven months pregnant. It's been almost three years since then, surely I can do the same route now! The eternal battle intensifies as the internal wimp retorts that I am almost forty. Whew, that was a low blow.

Suddenly, I emerge from the forest near the road. Traffic whizzes past, witnessing my puffy red face and sweatline down my chest. I, huff, must, huff, not look like an idiot in front of these people.

Pathetic, isn't it, how it's vanity that ultimately pushes me to succeed?

I wish I could run with my dogs. Yes, the same ones responsible for the nauseating detritus that is my backyard. But one is from champion field trial stock and is too much of an instinctual hunter--she'd pull me off towards the ducks, swans, and squirrels. The other one is from champion show stock and is um, pretty. So, one is too smart and the other not enough. I would love the company though. Now that I say it, I wonder. Jogging, like hiking, is a spiritual experience for me. I enjoy the solitude and the opportunity to commune with nature, reflectively. Stooping to scoop would kill the flow.

I feel virtuous as I write this. I've done my exercise for the day. Thank goodness because I have a nasty headache, a vague urge to vomit, and a slight dizziness. As the battle threatens to begin anew, the addicted runner finally reemerges with a reply to the 'forty-year-old' insult, "Maybe I will feel better when I try it again tomorrow..."

The Gross-out

Why is it that one feels so liberated after having grossed someone out?



I have a theory: that this is the very notion behind the success of all horror literature and film. It feels titillatingly delicious to really crank it up, I mean, sensing when you have crossed the line with a story and then going totally overboard. Moreover, we love to be disgusted. It's naughty.



The other day, I was recounting to a colleague one of my dogs' disgusting habits. As I sensed her squirming, I found myself delving deeper and deeper into heinously unnecessary detail. I left her in a state of half-scream/half-laughter. Yet, I had to go one step further and exit the room while making sound effects relevant to the anecdote. When I heard her climactic groan, I could no longer erase the grin from my face.



I felt tremendous success and catharsis. I was now relieved of the hideous memory, having divied it up amongst other beings in the universe. I no longer have to independently carry the burden.



We may actively hunt down creepy moments to relieve our over-active imaginations, to free our stressed psyches, or to simply to feel more than we do in daily life numbed by societal pressure. Perhaps we are attempting to connect with some now-forbidden archetypal instinct. Whatever the reason, I'm sure my friend felt just as rejuvenated after hearing my story as I did after telling it.