Left, right, left, right.
It’s effortless. Invigorating. And… relaxing.
He sets off by foot. Slowly walking out the door at first, then picking up to a jog. Then it happens. He’s able to run. But he finds a stride that is as fluid as a metronome and at a speed that shouldn’t be possible. Long, bounding strides. An endurance kicks in that allows him to cross considerable distances. Still slower than a car, but so much more rewarding than any drive could ever be. Being inside a car doesn’t let you feel the rain on your face. There’s no way to acknowledge passersby. And the act of running feels so deliberate. Every step, every foot-fall is planned, calculated, and then planted on the surface. The reward of each propels him forward and upward into the next bound.
He runs in the street. Down the road. Even in the center lanes of the freeway once. It’s happened many times. Every few months, he says. And when it happens – while it’s happening, he says – it’s as if his life turns into focus. Everything feels… simple. And right.
It’s in his dreams, he tells me, that he gets to run like this.