The last six months have been nice. I got married. I took several vacations. I enjoyed every bit of the busy season that comes with the holidays. I worked late without anxiety that I was supposed to be doing something else. I didn't exercise as much as I should have, but I worked out when I wanted to. I did not go to the pool. And the only run I ever went on was through concourses and airport terminals trying to catch a connection.
Both my brain and my body told me it was ready to be done with its self-proclaimed sabbatical. Starting again isn't easy. No matter what I once did or how far I could once go, it doesn't matter anymore. Because I can't do that right now. Yes, there is muscle memory. And, yes, it will come back eventually. But it's going to take awhile before I don't feel nervous or anxious before a run or a ride wondering how uncomfortable I will be and playing the mind game to not compare against what I could once do (otherwise I'll just feel awful).
The one thing I know that has stayed the same is the skewed perspective of distance. In December, Nick and I were at Pike Place in Seattle and needed to get to Capitol Hill. We Google-mapped it and I exclaimed, "Oh, it's only 2 miles uphill, let's just walk it. We'll get there in 44 minutes." So we did. A few weeks ago I was driving in Minnesota and I was on a small hill. With most of the area being pretty flat, there was this vast expanse of space and I could see the Minneapolis skyline in the distance. It looked so very far away. And then I realized it was only 13 miles away. I suppose I could run/walk there if my heart desired. It would hurt, no doubt. But running/walking 13 miles is still in my vocabulary.
And so another journey begins. It will be shorter. But that doesn't mean it will be any easier.
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