I have a theory that every individual with a passion for an endurance sport such like running or cycling carries one key tool with them at all times: a good, solid mind-fuck. It’s the thing you rely on when you feel like quitting, when you have to fight through the funk and to the really good stuff. When whimping out, sitting your arse on the side of the road and texting friends from your celly about wanting someone to come pick you up because the ride/run is boring, the wind is blowing, it’s too cold, etc. sounds far better than the voice in your head reminding you of the pain traveling through your legs or your lungs. It’s what keeps you moving, and sometimes, it’s what keeps you angry.

I have more than one of these bad boys, because I’m a gal with ADD who likes variety!

First is the imaginatively titled “run” playlist on the trusty gen 2 iPod. I honestly didn’t realize the connection until recently, but every song on that 2 hr thread of groovalicousness is tied to a man. Every song fires me up in its own way, linking me to a place, time and sensation…though never an actual solid memory of the human who helped create it. It’s never the guy or the specifics of how it ended that comes to mind, instead it’s the strength that came from or inspired the detachment. It’s the spark lit by those sensations that fuels my nitro burning jet packs.

Second on the list is my baby boy. He’s had his life and limbs nearly taken from him a half dozen times and he’s always fought through it. He may not be exactly the same boy with the same bones in the same places as they were when we were kids, but he’s tenacious and he inspires me. If he can be squished by a car (twice while on a bike, once as a passenger), have his skull drained, his pelvis reset, his punctured lungs healed and his epic road rash turned into the things you see in textbooks, then I can fight through a little discomfort.

Third and most significant – my legs. It’s that simple, really. My mother didn’t have any. A statement like that sounds morbid and crass when I issue it so casually, I’m sure. I had time to get used to it. After years of abusing her body with a steady diet of nicotine, caffeine and alcohol, my mother had physical container revoked bit by bit. She had been the PTA president, the leader for my brothers scout troop, the typical mom of the 70′s who did it all with grace and a long brown More hanging out the side of her mouth. She was charming and thin and spunky and lovely, and she wasn’t one to accept or believe bad news (like “quit smoking, it’s killing you”). I was in 5th grade when she had her first open heart surgery, and 6th grade when she had her first amputation. I was 21 when she passed away.

So yes, I have my legs and yes, this is why I cry out of frustration and want to scream when my knees fail. It’s not the physical pain that slays me.

Running for me has never been about competing or winning, it’s always been about doing…because I can.

How’s that for a mind-fuck?

Kissy boo!