Running is my perverse addiction.
I don’t know why I am addicted to running.
I’ve always had a somewhat addictive personality, something that established itself in childhood when I became addicted to the Sims 2 and, more severely, marshmallow flumps.
At its worst, I would play the Sims 2 for up to 6 hours straight.
During that time, I would have consumed up to twenty-five flumps.
I realised that my addiction was taking a downward, destructive spiral when I stopped visiting the ‘Create a Family’ room and started removing doors from walls and ladders from pool sides instead.
I sensed that having near complete control over the lives of others was getting to me.
I was becoming sick with power.
I was losing sight of the person that I had been and was turning into a brainwashed flump-guzzling monster.
As a result, I made a concerted effort to quit.
All things considered, maybe I am so addicted to running because partaking in regular cardiovascular exercise means that I can afford to eat as many flumps as I want without getting fat.
I have also considered the possibility that my addiction stems from the fact that sustaining running-related injuries such as Achilles Tendonitis, Plantar Fasciitis and hurty toes makes me feel badass.
I tend to get injured quite a bit when partaking in any form of physical activity.
I think this might be because I have the spatial awareness of a bulldozer.
When I am walking and happen to encounter an immovable object, my mind cognates that the obstruction is there but my body does not move to accommodate it.
When I am running and moving at (a marginally faster) speed, I often don’t even have time to acknowledge the presence of an obstruction.
A couple of months ago, I sustained my most significant running injury to date.
I was running through my local woods when my foot caught on a tree root.
The sudden introduction of an opposing force to my previously established momentum meant that I was thrust violently forwards.
My arms chose this exact moment to bypass any semblance of an autonomic reflex response.
They remained pinned to my side as the rest of my body dove liberally through the air.
In the Black Mountains of the Nebraska region, the harsh weather conditions and heavy snowfall of the winter season mean that the red fox is forced to adopt a unique hunting technique in order to access its prey.
I have included a GIF of this hunting method as I feel that it accurately captures both the motion of my body in the moments after I tripped, along with the point of impact upon the fall’s completion.
After the initial shock of having punched the ground with my face had subsided, I reached upwards to assess the damage.
However, before my fingers could make contact with my facial skin, I felt a drop of liquid fall into my hands.
Panic-stricken and still somewhat shaken, I had the following series of thoughts:
I started to scrabble around frantically on the floor, searching for my disembodied nasal passages.
Turns out that my nose was still on my face.
The drop that had fallen onto my hand was not blood but was instead a clear liquid.
Not that I was crying.
A drop of water had simply fallen on to my hand.
Yes, it may have fallen from my eye.
And yes, it may have been slightly salty.
Okay, so drop of salty water had fallen onto my hand directly from my tear duct.
But I wasn’t crying…
I don’t really know how to end this post so I’ve decided to finish on a quick moral that I will be following for the remainder of my life.