I LOVE running hills. You may think I'm crazy, perhaps even demented, but I find a certain thrill in pushing myself against gravity, against comfort, against reason.
Gravity says "conform," that we should all stay in one place, never venturing out, taking no "paths less traveled."
Comfort means not exerting enough energy to excel, endure, strengthen. Any athlete knows that achievements, trophies, improvements cannot be earned by remaining in a state of comfort.
Reason persuades us to accept the impossible, to give in to gravity, to choose comfort over discomfort.
Here's the really sickening part: I enjoy the pain of pressing up an incline, the sweat of exertion. I put my head down, lean forward, stick my elbows out a bit, push off of my toes, and pick my knees up.
My high school coach passed on wise advice; the key to conquering a hill is to maintain your speed and intensity after you've reached the top. He never explained why, but left the logic to each individual runner. My thinking is this: Running at a certain pace UP HILL will always be harder than running at that same pace on a level surface. So if you push yourself up the hill, even keeping at the same pace afterward will still be a relief. So why slow down? (That's a rhetorical question, for you "wise" ones.)
I also LOVE metaphors.
Stay golden, Ponyboy.
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