A refugee from the newspaper wars

I awoke this morning to the news the chain of newspapers I work for had been sold. No surprise there. The surprise was the buyers plan to sell the newspaper I work for the minute they get their hands on us. I spent the next hour attending my daily chores, only to be haunted with mental images of being a newspaper refugee. What if this was just the beginning of the end of the Fourth Estate? I had images of me dragging a cart filled with my family down a dirt road while the newspaper I worked for burned in the distance. Ugh.

Short of opening that bottle of whiskey that collects dust, I finally just gave up, put on my running shoes and headed out the door. Some 20 miles later, I was in a whole lot better frame of mind (although physically I wasn't feeling that hot). It's probably no news to you runners that running is very theraputic. You get the rush of endorphins that kind of numbs that nagging anxiety, and makes everything seem possible. You get that physical pain (I ran a whole lot of hills today) that keeps you from dwelling on the negatives of other aspects of your life. As your legs turn to rubber and you stagger forward (that would be me, Mile 18) you seem to find a strange sense of peace.

I think it was in the February issue of Runners World there was a piece on running and depression. Very nice story, but again, no news to me. Life seems easier to take when I'm running regularly and the challenge isn't getting out of bed in the morning, it's putting on the running shoes and getting out the door (even though I know I'll feel better after a few miles).