Addiction

I fear that I have just done something stupid.
You see, addictions make you do stupid things. They force you to go great lengths just to get a taste, forcing you to compromise what you already have in order to be that little bit happier. I do not know what I have just gotten myself into, but I am feeding into my apparent addiction. Pray for me!
Yesterday I walked for an hour and a half to the University of KwaZulu Natal rugby field. It was there that I met the 6 members of the UKZN track and field team. It was the first day of practice, and we had a fitness test that was running for as far as you can in 12 minutes-- at the very end I caught up with the one girl in front of me, a distance runner who doesn't wear shoes. The "track" is a set of lines drawn in the grass around the rugby field. There is no coach and there is barely a team. But, there just so happens to be something that resembles a long jump pit [or a randomly placed sandbox], although there is no runway and someone else referred to it as a "gravel pit." My three female teammates are funny; I asked one what her event was and she said, "Oh, field events. I don't like running. I don't know what I'll do yet, but I know I don't want to run."
Then I met Wale [pronounced like "Wall-ay" and not "whale"]. He walked up in spandex leggings and a Nike dry-fit shirt, his iPod blaring. He actually looked like he was going to track practice. Not only did he have takkies [running shoes], he even had spikes... and muscles! He looked like a serious athlete... and I am fortunate that this Nigerian long jumper just so happens to be my training partner. He, like everyone else on the team, is also self-coached and he seems to keep a bit to himself. After the 12-minute "fitness test" the rest of the team left while Wale and I stayed and did run-throughs well until the darkness, leaving at 7pm [he has a car, so he said he would give me a lift home]. I came home sweaty and dirty, my body achy and sore, and my shoes and socks filled with sand... but with a huge grin on my face. I just signed myself up for a commitment that is over an hour away and a constant reminder of how painful this sport is... and how much sand you can manage to bring home when you are a long jumper.

Ugh. Why have I done this to myself? I am almost angry that I couldn't stop myself from doing something so silly. It really is an addiction. I don't know who to blame for this. Maybe I should blame the doctor who corrected my club feet or my mother who always walked so fast that as a little kid I had to run to keep up. Or maybe I should blame my high school for forcing me to try an organized sport when I knew I was destined to play my flute [because a flute does not come flying at your face like balls tend to do in sports]. Maybe I should blame Mr. Hogarth for spying on me my freshman year of high school during JV soccer practice [my way of fulfilling my "organized sport" requirement] and telling me to join the track team. I should blame Paul Turner for entertaining my idea of being a collegiate track athlete and letting me join the Harvard team. Or maybe it is Coach Gee I have to blame, for turning me into a legit long jumper and teaching me how good it feels to be on the awards stand. Or at least I should probably blame my teammates for being my best friends and a constant network of support and fun.

There are many people I can blame for nurturing this addiction and driving me to [speed]walk for miles just to run in some grass and jump around in a sandbox. I definitely do not expect to be jumping the 6m that I managed at Harvard, but there is still something oddly gratifying about just competing at track meets that I am not ready to give up, not yet.