\”The experts are always telling us to \’Listen to your body!\’ But if I listened to my body, I\’d live on toffee pops and port wine. Don\’t tell me to listen to my body-it\’s trying to turn me into a blob.\”
-Roger Robinson, New Zealand masters runner and author
Spring Break is drawing near in our little college burb, and that means one thing: All of my favorite running routes are clogged with college boys and girls trying to get in the best shape possible before Spring Break. I\’m not sure what bothers me more, the fact that they started about three days ago or the fact that they will most likely be successful. Because twenty year old bodies can drop pounds faster than David Letterman can drop watermelons off of New York buildings. Quick and dirty. The forty year old body, however, says, \”No, wait, I remember that pound. Let\’s not throw it away, we could need it.\” The forty year old body is a pack rat.
But after Spring Break, the wannabee\’s will be back doing whatever it is they do and the roads will be clear and there will no longer be the thump thump of feet as some hulky college boy zips past me on his way to the post run beer. Of course, it will also be one hundred degrees from then on, all the way to October.
Writers tend to walk and run a lot, believe it or not. It\’s time to think things through. And sitting in front of a computer is more conducive to growing hips than growing novels. So they move. C.S.Lewis, Madeleine L\’Engle, they are among the walkers. Annie Dillard, runs. Anne Lamott, walks. Fiction that moves requires movement, I guess.