For the first time since leaving New York in the spring, I accomplished a successful outdoor run last week.  I had mapped out a path in my new car back when we arrived in Atlanta in May, but sweltering heat and humidity conquered my longing to escape the boredom of a treadmill workout…until fall hit us.  The mosquitoes vanished, the humidity dropped with the temperature, and I set out on my run.

Funny how hills are so much flatter from behind the wheel of a car.

At the north end of Central Park is a stretch of pavement called Heartbreak Hill. It was the bane of my existence while I was training for the half-marathon a couple of years ago.  Not only is the hill relatively steep (I say relatively because it’s a nice word to throw in when you want to qualify your weakness since there are people out there who have climbed Mt. Everest), but it curves around a rock that blocks the hill’s peak from view.  So the runner battles an incline that seems never-ending, and looking up for a source of hope–the beginning of the downhill stretch–only ends in discouragement as the asphalt goes on and up.  I hated Heartbreak Hill before and during each of my runs…until the glorious moment I felt the ground give beneath me and, just when I thought my heart would burst, it loosened in my chest and I felt like I was flying.  Then…then I loved Heartbreak Hill.

And so it is here in Atlanta.  Within the first mile of my run, Ashford-Dunwoody Road begins its incline and I feel gravity, the devil on my shoulder, encouraging me to slow down, run backwards, even pop into Chili’s for a skillet of cheese and a bathtub-sized margarita.  Once again, the road stretches on for awhile before I see the peak–and once I reach that peak, all hope vanishes because this hill, bestill my failing heart, is a double hill. Rise, plateau, rise.  The last incline passes by Dunwoody Baptist Church and as the steel cross in its front yard glints in the sunlight, I am thankful that the lovely families entering and exiting the building can’t hear the steady current of profanity that scrolls through my head.  Then I remember who can hear it, and I am thankful for grace.

In the midst of recent hills–waiting for a diagnosis, waiting for a house, waiting for a big break–I  have seen the kind of truths that crystallize in the blood, sweat, and tears of life rather than on its sunny beaches.  Like that I am blessed beyond belief to face the hills in my way rather than the mountains in the paths of some.  Or the realization that hit me after I had to quit the hill and start walking the other day.  The next time out, I refused to look up, knowing that the slope of the road would only kill my resolve and give me an excuse to stop.  I kept my eyes on the sidewalk a couple of feet ahead of me and focused on the rhythm of my arms and the pumping of my feet.  I thought, Keep going and in a few seconds you can let go and enjoy this. The thought landed like a ton of bricks as I realized how much of my life I have labored under that idea:  enduring rather than living.  One goal after another, waiting for the next big thing to happen.  I decided to stop listening to my own head and start listening to the cast of Glee as they belted out a Madonna tune.  Head down, two-foot vision, uphill climb?  More like a healthy body, killer tunes, and the open road ahead of me. This is living.