The first step is the worst step: my body creaking down the Eau Claire trail engaged in what I will politely describe as a “run.” Every part of me rebels against this lunacy: waking early, lacing my shoes, and dragging myself across pavement until my legs loosen just enough to transform from hobble to stride.

I am not being punished or pressured. I am training for nothing. I am neither logging miles, nor routes, nor times.

So why put in all the effort? To be honest, I’m not quite sure. Though I suppose my recent foray into the running involves my attempt to start the day with a view a bit better than the glow of my computer screen. 

On this August morning, nature’s canvas does not disappoint. Off to my right, a mist holds firm over the river like a shroud. Overhead, a family of robins stretch their feathered wings. All around me is the stillness of ferns. And the whisper of water. And straight ahead, a gang of side-eyed turkeys who appear like extras from the bird version of West Side Story. Plodding along the pavement, I smile at the notion that the whole of the Chippewa Valley appears to be rubbing the sleep from its eyes. 

About two miles in, a faint voice inside my head reminds me of the pleasures of walking. Perhaps I ought to slow down and give it a try?

I know this voice all too well and combat it with a series of mind games. 

First, I picture a dappled horse thundering across a meadow, its pectoral muscles trembling against the thin husk of its hide. Be fast like that horse, I tell myself.

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To pass the time (and distract myself from the physical pain), I worry about things both within my control and beyond it.

... But then, around mile 4, all the worries begin to wither. Suddenly I’m reminded that all my people are fine. That the emails can wait. That my “to-do” list is just a few items away from becoming my “I did” list. 

When that’s not enough to power me on, I think of the video games of my youth: a pixelated plumber, in particular, whose headlong leap into a star always prompted him to skitter ahead at faster speeds. Be fast like that star-powered plumber, I think.

When neither horse nor that plumber proves sufficient, I take more drastic action: trapping myself in the prison of my own thoughts.

As if running weren’t torturous enough, suddenly I’m forced to reckon with my own unique brand of anxieties. To pass the time (and distract myself from the physical pain), I worry about things both within my control and beyond it. I worry about people I love and those I’ve never met. I worry about emails. And the endless “to-do” lists. 

But then, around mile 4, all the worries begin to wither. Suddenly I’m reminded that all my people are fine. That the emails can wait. That my “to-do” list is just a few items away from becoming my “I did” list. 

I tell myself that my only task in this moment is to keep moving my body. And after a while, my body begins doing that part on its own.

Sure, running sucks, but also (I can’t believe I’m about to admit this…) I kind of love it.  In part, because so long as you don’t write an article about it (ahem…), running can remain a private act. You need not trumpet your times. You need not brandish your medals. Your successes (and “failures”) are completely your own. Since it’s not a team sport, it’s impossible to let anyone down — other than yourself. If you set the right intention, you “win” just by showing up.

Yes, the first step is always the worst step, but if you can make it to the second, there’s a good chance you’ll make it to the third. And if you make it to the third, there’s a great chance you’ll see a river, or a sunrise, or a gang of turkeys from the bird version of West Side Story.

I tell myself that if I just stick with it, it’ll get easier. 

And remind myself, too, that the only difference between “striving” and “striding” is a letter.