Last week a car hit me.
In the past thirteen months I have essentially ceased all physical activity. Last week I regrettably discerned my swelling sides and bulging stomach. I had a vision of a portly, obese self and thought, one day. Not yet! The Vision instigated unrivaled inspiration and within minutes I dashed down the street. When I say dashed, I mean prodded. Or scuttled. It was uphill. I drove my arms back and forth, back and forth. My self-narration comprised the following:
“I will not die. I will not die. Maybe moving my arms faster will automatically force my legs to go faster… Nope. That didn’t do anything. Except my arms are more tired and my legs hate me. I will not die.”
I peaked the hill and with wild abandon flung myself downhill. My body soared, my feet lightly ricocheted off the concrete. A streetlight revolved from yellow to red and I fluttered across the street. Delight that through the previous thirteen months I preserved the ability to run downhill overwhelmed me. A smile erupted across my face. And then a punch exploded into my side. With no effort at preserving my upright position, I tumbled to the concrete. A car had reversed into me as I gloriously paraded past. The driver either failed to notice me, the flying sprinter, due to my intense speed, or just didn't care enough to stop. The car leapt away from me and rocketed down the street. I shrugged, stood, and resumed running. Or scuttling.