"It filled him with a great unrest and strange desires. It caused him to feel a vague, sweet gladness, and he was aware of wild yearnings and stirrings for he knew not what."
~Jack London, The Call of the Wild

I don’t know if London was a runner, but evidently, he understood.

It was 38 degrees. There was rain and wind, and I was faster than I've ever been. For the first time I didn't even mind the burning in my lungs and legs or the cramping in my sides, in fact, I believe I liked it. Is that masochistic? I wanted it to continue more than I wanted it to stop, so I ran faster and faster and I still don’t quite understand.

The searing made me relentless and rabid and caused me to swallow what fear I found in fleshy, torn from the bone pieces, breaking them down as biology intended. It was as if I knew only eat or be eaten while on that cold and muddy trail, and since then have come to realize that this must be my nature no matter how I've previously tried to civilize it. It must be because everything in me was alive like it's never been and everything worn was new.

It's funny, for three years I've worked intently towards not going out too hard, towards saving and pacing and consolidating in order to avoid blowing up, but today I think I learned the first lesson along this new journey of mine. Something of pain. There is pushing through it, which I've long understood, but never have I known the thrill of hunting it out of hiding, of chasing it down until I feel the warmth of it, alive between my teeth, and of biting down until it struggles against me no more.