Sphinxes, mermaids, unicorns. We all (I use that word generally) accept these to be myths. Over the years, I have learned to lump the idea of "perfection" in with these fantastical creatures. Perfect job, perfect relationship, perfect body- it just doesn't exist (with the exception of Jennifer Aniston- see previous post).
This is how I went about my ordinary, mundane, regular life. Until last week, ladies and gentlemen, when yours truly achieved the perfect run. I know what you are thinking, "No way! You? Really?!", or, more colorfully, "Girl, you ain't no Flo-Jo". To which, I say, "It is true." I kid you not- I was there. Some elderly people walking around the indoor track were there, too, but they are inconsequential to the story and its central theme.
I didn't break any records- I didn't even time myself (I never do). What made this run perfect was how I felt. During its entire duration, I was focused on what was working, instead of what wasn't. I couldn't feel myself jiggling like some sort of gelatinous version of the Michelin Man. Or rather, I could, but somehow I didn't care. I wasn't a jello mold, I was a lava lamp -all fluid, purposeful movements. I was gliding around the track like a dementor hellbent on Sirius Black.
The best part was that I didn't have to think about anything. My limbs moved as though they were being articulated by an invisible puppeteer who was better at knowing how to run than I am. My legs lifted, almost of their own accord, to the perfect height again and again- all without my conscious mental engagement. Air filtered in and out of my lungs without the despairing gasps normally present when I run. It was sublime. I let myself finish half a mile like it was the end of the Marine Corps Marathon, arms flailing wildly like the flippers of a panicked dolphin caught in a net. This phenomena has only happened to me once before-when I was in high school. I had only ever run two miles at a time before this point, but under the influences of a runner's high, was able to knock out six miles seemingly without strain.
I fear I will never know the secret recipe for runs of this caliber-although I suspect that a playlist featuring an amalgam of Missy Elliot's early 2000s hits may have had a hand in it. All I can do is hope that it won't be the last time I am able to reach this upper echelon of exercise. It was, in a word, exquisite.