what i scream about when i dream about racing

The rabbit smeared across the coarse asphalt, its viscera glistening in the morning sun. The realisation I have nothing left to give. The Italian guy in fluorescent shorts with the shit-eating grin — who keeps accelerating past me, only to immediately slow to a jog 20 centimetres ahead of me.  An accidental pregnancy. The disarming sensation of pins and needles radiating from my fingers to my chest. Any finish time beginning with the numbers 1:30.  A sharp, pain pinging in rhythm, in my knee. Trudging into the woods with a cardboard box, a mud-caked shovel and a dog in tow. Losing my breath, my voice and my words. Missed people, missed goals.

These are just some of the things I scream about because of the life I have chosen. The wake-in-terror-bolt-upright realisations that pull me back from sleep. I've long credited running as a kind of natural mood stabiliser, enhancer even, keeping me on an even keel, protecting me from a humiliating surrender to internal despair. What I don't often admit is that the despair doesn't go away: running isn't some clean release valve. Instead, it is transmuted into a potent duo of manic Race Thoughts and Private Terrors.

So... nothing like an exposition of those thoughts to help process them, right? Take them off the line, fold them neatly, tuck them in the top drawer? Maybe some runners will relate. Maybe some people who would like to be runners will take heed or — eyes transfixed in horror — will, trembling, fall back, shaking their heads resolutely, thinking: "Why do you do this to yourself?"