Mile Run (Or How I Learned to Love to Hurt)

I was an above-average, high-school miler for three years—I decided to enjoy the Sixties my senior year—and I never forgot the experience of running four laps on a cinder track. The spikes were nearly an inch long, and the shoes had no heel to speak of . . . ballet shoes, really, with spikes. I continued to run, though, for the rest of my life and compete in amateur 10 and 5 K races. I still do, although I spent my forties racing a bicycle with only the occasional, off-season run to add a bit of cross-training. Now, I both ride and run.

But the mile is a special event . . . each lap is a country unto itself and each requires a different way of living (and dying) to get through it. And each runner has a travel plan on how to proceed when the starter’s gun goes off. The runners who successfully impose their plans on the others typically win the race.

I recently wrote a poem about this four-lap journey which appears in the current issue of Aethlon. Thanks to the folks there for publishing it. I’ve included an image of the poem below.