A seventh of the sadness

In many ways, I’ve come to terms with my temporary plight and even begun to embrace the good things about not being able to run. I’m staying up later and sleeping in longer because my early mornings aren't earmarked for a certain activity. I’m eating less and losing weight because my appetite’s adjusted to this sedentary lifestyle. And I’m moving guilt-free through the piles of DVDs, magazines, novels and non-fiction books that stacked up over the year.

But every Sunday I suffer a minor setback. I’ve written before about my favorite day of the week, which always opened with an early morning long run through my suburb while listening to a retro radio show. That particular brand of 80s music no longer reminds me of my college years or my single days. After five years, the music now triggers memories of running right here in Scripps Ranch. I think of the sudden warmth of the sun melting through the marine layer and the fog lifting off Miramar Lake. The blue hues of the mountains in the distance and the lush lawns and gardens up close. The hip hop beat emanating from a newspaper carrier's car as it slices through the serenity of a world not yet awake.

Last week I turned on Resurrection Sunday on the radio in our solarium, my weekend sanctuary. The song just beginning was “Six Months in a Leaky Boat” by Split Enz – the same song I first played on the show during my guest DJ stint last year. I just stood there, listening and longing. I never made it to the next song in the set. The void reminder was just too much…until Monday came along.