Wogging

It is Thursday morning and I am feeling brave. I want to test my legs with just a little running. Or rather, walk-jogging or “Wogging”. Normally I detest the word “jogging”. I wasn’t a jogger, I was a runner. But at this time in my recovery I have to break away from all expectations of things being like they used to be. I can’t go out there after spending time in the hospital and while still on loads of medications and expect to *run* like I used to. I have to give myself room to explore what my body can do now without comparing it to what I used to be able to do. So at this time I am not running, or even jogging. I am wogging. And there is no performance goal and no pressure.

I am a bit scared as I tie on my running shoes for the first time in almost four weeks. It feels good to wear tights again. But I am nervous. What if I fall over? Or if I feel like crap and have to take a cab home from the park? Can I handle a failure?
The first few steps are wobbly. I am not sure my legs remember how to run. It feels very strange to be out there, jogging again. I alternate jogging very slowly with walking on my usual loop in the park. To others it might look like the most pathetic run ever, and when I am passed by old men with huge bellies I *am* a bit embarrassed. It is a humbling experience and I realize how much courage it takes to get out there if you are really out of shape. But at the same time I am almost bursting with joy. I have to wipe the tears off my face as I wog the final stretch under the bright, burning orange foliage. When I close the door to my apartment the tears are running down my face. Tears of joy. I did it. And what could have been the worst “run” of my life, performance wise, was instead the best “wog” of my life.