This morning I got up at 545am and started on my run. It was only going to be five miles. Only five miles that would kill a normal man. But not the Fat Man.
So on my way out of the house I grabbed my GPS watch and turned it on. It said low battery. Great. Low battery sometimes means it will go for 30 minutes or for an hour. So I just went with it. Chat was with me because he gets lonely if I don't take him with me. In fact he is quite put out that he does not go out with me to find new things for the day. He might miss Bambi or thumper or some other woodland folk that he might want to love with his mouth. But I digress.
So on the way up the hill the Fat Man looks at his watch and realizes that it has shut off and thus he cannot time himself. NORAD (North American Aerospace Defense Command) tracks Santa (http://www.noradsanta.org/) but they also track me on a secret site. They like to see how fat moves and in which directions. It is apparently part of some secret experiment to see if they get Osama Bin Laden fat enough he might die of heart disease and thus quit recording messages for the CIA to get confused about. "Send the jelly doughnuts on the second yak... the bird flies at midnight." But I digress.
The liberating thing about not running for the numbers is that you are just running for the fun of it or in my case to keep Doug the doughnut from recruiting evil allies. Chat and I went up the canyon in record time because we don't quite know how fast we were going. Sometimes I look at my feet and try to figure out how fast I am going by my form. Mostly my feet curse at me and wish I would die painfully while delivering poisoned Jelly Doughnuts to Osama.
But today the numbers did not really matter because it was just me, chat, the birds, some ground varmits, and the air around me. Sometimes running is not about the numerals quietly pounding away on your wrist. It is about the journey from point fat to point not.
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