Running

I run.

No, not away from anything. And certainly not in place.

I run because it makes me feel good. Really good.

Somebody I know once said that running is like washing your brain.

Endorphins are a really nice high. Your body releases them into your bloodstream to reward you for doing something to make yourself healthier. It’s a good deal, and one I advise you to take. There are no sure bets when it comes to physical health. But there are ways to gain clear, clean advantages.

It’s a game of numbers, of percentages. In Vegas, you count cards and remain expressionless. In life, you eat right, exercise, try to get enough sleep, and attempt to maintain a positive attitude.

All of which, of course, is easier said than done.

But I heartily embrace my daily opportunity to increase my odds of living better and longer and happier. It only takes 2 or 3 miles a day, maybe 30-40 minutes at a slow jog. I do it every morning, whatever the time of year.

And not just for the way it makes me feel: I do it for the people I love. I don’t want to get sick in ways I can prevent. I don’t want to grow old the hard way if, instead, I can do it with some semblance of vigor and style and grace. I don’t want to make my family worry and cry about things over which I have some control. I don’t want to die before I have to. I can’t buy myself any guarantees, but I can powerfully increase my odds. Who the hell wouldn’t want to do that?

Then there’s the fact that I don’t want to set a shoddy example for my son. I don’t want to teach him bad habits. I don’t want him thinking that it’s normal to lay on the couch watching TV while there are so many things to see and do. He loves to go outside. He loves to run around and explore and laugh and fall down and get back up and run around some more.

So do I.

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Jonah says: “Come on outside. There’s lots of nice sticks to play with. It’s real nice.”

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