When I teased the story of "How to Run Like a Rock Star" last month, there was an image nestled in my mind's eye.
It was Elvis.
You all have seen at least one image of the King. And you all know which image that I mean. Well, no. Not that one.
Not the one emblazoned in 70's glam, with the jumpsuit. Pale-ish white. Sequins and lamb chops.
After a life's continuance of peanut butter and banana sandwiches. No, not that one. The other. The King swathed in youth's glory.
Emblazoned in a greatness fully achieved. The King himself is not the story however … as I originally conceived.
In truth, I rarely listen to him these days. He was just a beginning. An embryonic whisper of an idea.
Thinking about it further, the story is really about the image and what it represents. The image of the King.
An aspiration. However unlikely … for me at least. A desire. Or an avarice of sorts, perhaps?
To achieve something in running. But what I do not know. The image of the King. I cannot say why the image stays with me.
Such greatness … I know that I will never achieve in my chosen passion. I will not be, as an athlete, what he was to Rock and Roll.
Yet, the image accompanies me along with the click, and the clack, of a rhythm hard won. Fixed and phantasmic.
It compels me to go further, faster, longer, harder. To continue, even after failure, as so often I do.
The image is an internal eidolon to motivate and carry me through the ache.
Physical and mental both. And the pang. The perennial accompanist to those toughest workouts. And the throe.
My companion along the road so arduous. Otherwise alone. But enough about me and the image of the King.
Tell me now. Do we share the image?
Or do you hold another close as you strive to achieve?
Or in this, am I alone?
Do you ever think about …How to run like a Rock Star?
Until next time … (when we examine the mystery of pleasure from pain).