Humanity has always had this fascination with defying logic, theory, and physics by manipulating gravity. While we were not necessarily designed to, we overcame our handicap and learned to fly.

I was not born a runner. I wasn’t brought into a family of racing, marathons, and weekend track meets. Similar, but on the microcosm of scale, I chose to overcome the world that I lived in. I dreamed of the ability to fly.

You know this sensation. When you are quickly ascending a shallow grade on an isolated, rural highway. Your legs are in sync with your arms, your torso is tight and focused, your breathing is in cadence with the rest of your soul. To you, the runner, you are experiencing the sensation of flight. Autopilot subconsciously has engaged and there is a slight chuckle in your head; knowing that you could keep this tempo for miles and for days.

That is flying.

it is an addiction. Once you have tasted the ability to glide past the rules of gravity and repeal the notion of friction, you cannot get enough of the experience. For the past five years, especially since the early winter of 2011, I have been reaching and reaching for another shot of that addiction. One more strike, one more mile, one more silent experience of smooth transition from running to flight.

It was not until 2016, at the age of 28, that I started to recognize and accept that these dreams cannot be accepted and embraced by myself. Though my social skills negated this thought, the truth was that I needed support in order to grasp this experience once more. I joined a running team, paired up with a local running supplies store, and started being honest with my dreams. I want the medals, the placements, and the awards. However, more importantly, I want to fly. I want to feel my body stretch along worn paths and experience the weightlessness of flight.

This blog, flyover, is merely the collection of thought of just another American residing in the flyover states of the country, and dreaming to take off once more.


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