Redeemed by the running gods

You were privy to my three-week trek through gluttony and indolence. It was a sorry sight, I'm sure, and I don't blame you for averting your eyes (I did, too, with a little help from a well-practiced skill called 'avoidance').

But inevitably I returned to the Thursday runs last week - and that was rough. A well-deserved kind of rough.

Tuesday was an improvement - the running gods were pleased, but understandably skeptical.

But yesterday - oh the joy that was yesterday!

It was hot - you know that, you were lying around in your own sweat all afternoon just like everybody else. It was hot and all day I bemoaned the run and the sun and secretly wished it was August 3rd and I was resting lazily in a raft on the Saco with my feet skimming the top of the cool river water and my hand happily clutching a chilled beer.

But all that in good time. First, there is a race to win. Er, run. Er, finish.

So off to the track at Fitzpatick Stadium we went. My face flushed from the effort. Sweat dampened my running shirt and my hairline…and then everything.

And while my pores drained, the running gods watched:

"She's still running," the running god Mizuno said, watching Portland from a great height.

"You don't say," Asics replied, barely looking up from his outdated copy of Runner's World.

Saucony walked over to join Mizuno on the balcony and smiled to see a small Shannon below, wiping her forehead with her shirt - almost like a professional.

"Looks like she's determined to really finish the race this time. Perhaps we should give her her spirit back, eh?" (Running gods all talk like Canadians, though no one really knows why.)

"Asics?" Saucony questioned again. "Is it okay if we stop punishing her for her tremendous slight against us? It's getting kind of depressing to watch."

After a long pause, Asics finally mumbled, "Oh, all right. Our time is better spent crushing the dreams of Olympic hopefuls anyway."

And so, back in Portland, I ran from the Maine Running store to the Fitzpatrick track and, funny thing, I didn't feel awful.

We ran once around the track and, strangely, I felt pretty damn good.

We ran it again and - holy crap - I was sightly faster than the last time.

We ran it again and (I think you see where I'm going with this) I felt strong, fast-ish even (until that REALLY fast chick blew past me - but let's not dwell there).

Four times we went around and I improved my time from 1:56 to 1:54 to 1:53 to 1:52.

"Nice job guys," John Rogers says. "You're consistent and that's good."

That is good. You know what else is good? Optimism. I used to be flooded with it, but the last few weeks it seemed Optimism had packed it bags, befriended a trucker, hitched a ride north and settled down in a quaint Canadian fishing village (where, let's face it, it'd probably be much happier). But I tell you what, I got a bit of it back and I'm going to run with it (literally and figuratively).

Those feckless days are history - there is hope for me yet.