Such Great Heights

Now that my flu symptoms have diminished, I've gotten back up on the metaphorical horse and started exercising again as part of my never-ending quest to lose ten pounds.

Running has always eluded me; I have the ankles of a frail, elderly woman. But I've always been fascinated by the notion of the runner's high. I have passed (in my car, of course) many a runner in my day; most of them look miserable. Now and then I pass one who is in the throes, jamming along in a full-on runner's high. And it looks sooooo awesome.

Question: Is the runner's high only legit when achieved through, yanno, running?

I have, in my step-aerobicized past, caught a glimpse of the euphoria.

And I've gotten into the Zone of Awesomeness many a time while hiking.

Tonight I did it on a Nordic Track.

Fueled by the perfect rhythm that is the Bee Gees' "Jive Talkin'" and the sudden realization that I'm on frickin' summer vacation (as opposed to thinking that I've just been home sick for the past week), I went there.

Though the music and the mood are crucial, that thing that always pushes me into the Land of the High is the fantasy - the story I make up in my head about how awesome I am and all the magnificent and impressive things I am capable of.

Um, do other people do this?

I always seem to have this hokey Olympic-caliber athlete/Charlie's Angels chasing down a perp movie playing in my mind when I hit the high. And I'm totally starring in it.

Is the fantasy fueling the euphoria?

Is it all just one big dopamine-changed hallucination?

I acknowledge that it's a bit silly, but when the swing of the "poles" on the Nordic Track take on a much-too-funky vibe, I am no longer a fortysomething suburban mom, listening to disco anthems while striding along on a piece of outdated exercise equipment.

I am so strong.

I am so lithe.

I am so high.