Snow, ice, wind, and baggy drenched nylon, that was my “go-to” Sunday morning combination when I was training for my first marathon in the spring of 2001 in Boulder, CO. It was my senior year in college, and I remember thinking on nearly every one of those long, grindy workouts that I wasn’t in great, or even in good enough shape to complete the assigned 12, 14, or 18 miles I had on my plan that day, let alone the looming 26.2 on race day, but however ugly, I did always finish those Sunday runs. In fact one day I ran the impossibly long and brain-busting amount, 19 miles, but 26.2? That seemed like lunacy.

But I did it.

And even though running down the finish chute of that first marathon on June 3rd, 2001 in San Diego was a moment I will never forget, it is the cold, sloppy hours I spent running along the backroads of Boulder not quite sure I knew what I was doing, but still doing it, right or wrong, are what impacted me the most. It was during those solitary miles of suffering and euphoria that I let myself become who I wanted to be, an observer of the world through movement.

Running always brings me back to center. It is my favorite state to move through the world; out of breath, tired, invigorated, wet, smelly, and with a full heart and appreciation for what my body can do. Quick runs, slow runs, they are all unique, but each one drips a strain of magic into my bloodstream that consistently makes me beg for more.

But I will never be satisfied.

I will never run fast enough, or long enough to believe I’ve done enough, to stop, but finding a method to feel alive, a reason AND a way to keep going when it seems like there is a mile high, and county wide wall in front of me is a wink and a nod to the power of pain; accept it, and then use it to keep going.

The song and video choice this week is a recent release from my girl, Pink, “All I Know So Far.”