Silly resolutions. So many lies. So many false promises.

Silly resolutions. So many lies. So many false promises.

By Eclipse Award-Winning Writer Sean Clancy

Run every day. Write every day. Won’t happen. Probably won’t get through the week. But here goes. It’s 8:06 on the first working day of 2012. I’ve been up for hours, surfing the Internet, drinking coffee, reading What I talk about When I Talk about Running (so far, a dull 10-minute-mile book about writing and running). Yes, my theme. No, not my style yet. It could get better. I’ve written in fits and starts this morning, nothing very good. I guess, I can check it off, ‘I’ve written today.’ Now for the run.

No thermometer, luckily, I don’t want to know. I can see the cold on the
horses. Huddled against the wind. Time to shut up. I washed my running
clothes last night and pull them out of the dryer. Cold to the touch. Under
Armour slides on as the first level. Nike comes on next. Protection. Layers.

I don’t want to run, but can’t bear to break the resolution, just three days
into the resolution. My hips ache, like knives boring into splintered wood.
My nose is stuffy. My mouth, dry, from too much morning coffee. Albert
beginning to feed, I’ll check in with him and go. Stop writing about it
Sean, and start running. There’s another resolution, a resolution on a
resolution. Man, these declarations/resolutions are brutal.

I make a left out the driveway, to Pot House Road, at least it’s gravel and
not paved, up the first hill, blocked by the wind. Suddenly, I’m hot. How
can I be hot when it’s this cold? The clash. Past Huntlands, left on
Foxcroft Road and the wind hits me like it’s been waiting for me, like it’s
mad at me, like it knows I’ve lied, cheated, stolen. The wind crashes into
me and I slow to a crawl. I’m so old, decrepit, out of shape. Mad at myself.

Foxcroft Road wins, I make a left, over the board fence along the woods of
Huntlands. The ground sinks in spots, frozen one foot, soft the next. I
guess this is cross training. Through another gate, over a fence, a fox
skitters away from a hay pile into the woods, wondering what I’m doing out
here. Stephen, the farm manager sees me, here comes his truck into the
field, slows down, laughs deep and long. His rifle rests across the
passenger seat.

“What are you doing?”

“New Year’s Resolution, man.”

“You’re crazy.”

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