Remembering Why I Run

            My legs ache. So does my back, my feet, and, surprisingly, my elbows. The inside of my thighs are chafing. So are my nipples. I can feel a blister forming on my left inner big toe mound—on the same foot I’ve already rolled twice. Despite a perfect sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit, I’m absolutely drenched in sweat. And boy do I stink, to high-heaven*, some might say. The battery in my iPod nano died about six miles ago. But it’s not the loss of music that I find troubling, it’s that I can now hear myself breath, which only reminds me of just how tired I really am. It’s been approximately five hours and twenty-seven miles since my girlfriend dropped me off at the northern-most point of the Wildwood Trail off Newberry Road, but it feels more like five weeks and 100 miles. I felt great until about mile 20, but then the mostly flat trail started uphill, driving my motivation downhill, and now with a mere three miles to go, I find myself asking the same question over and over: Why the hell am I doing this?

            I’ve been running since I can remember. As a child, I loved running through the woods behind my house after school and down the trails at Camp Ska-No-Ka-San in the summer. In sixth grade I joined the middle school cross country team, partly because it was the only sport that sixth graders were allowed to participate in, but mostly because I wanted to prove how great of a runner I was. There was only one glitch—I wasn’t great. Hell, I wasn’t even good. In my mind, I had convinced myself that I was one of the fastest boys in the school. In reality, I was slower than even most of the girls. It didn’t matter how hard I trained, I was simply a lousy runner. I’d cramp up early and often, like someone was stabbing a sharp blade into the side of my stomach, the pain sometimes so severe that I would have to stop mid-race and wait for it to subside. And if it wasn’t cramps, it was lack of breath, or heavy feet, or some other ailment that kept me in the back of the pack. But I stuck with it for three years, finally giving up when I entered high school. On varsity, they ran 5 kilometers, twice as far as I was used to, and if I couldn’t cut it in junior high, then I didn’t stand a chance against competitors who were old enough to drive automobiles.

            My running career was over. Or so I thought. But then something interesting happened—I missed it. Not necessarily the humiliation of coming in last place, or the cramps, or the self-awareness that I simply wasn’t good, but the genuine act of running itself (plus the camaraderie of being part of the team). After a year absence, I joined the varsity team as a sophomore. Again, I proved to be a lousy competitor, but instead of admitting to my shortcomings as a runner, I did what any arrogant teenage boy would do—I pretended like I didn’t care. “I’m only running to get in shape for wrestling season,” I would always say to justify participating in a sport where I was clearly out of my league. The truth was, I wanted to be good, but as is often the case, there is vast difference between desire and talent. But I had a great time nonetheless, and when I reminisce about my high school days, some of my fondest memories revolve around the cross-country team.

            Once high school was over, I finally stopped running competitively, but I never stopped running. There was always some reason—to get in shape for another sport, to shed the belly that comes with a winter’s worth of beer guzzling, to escape the cramped confines of a dorm room or apartment or house. Yes, there was always some reason, though for the longest time I don’t think I ever truly understood the reason. I guess that’s just part of growing older—you actually start questioning the motives behind your actions. I used to run, well, to run, but now I have this overwhelming urge to understand why I do it.

Some might argue that it’s the sadomasochistic side of me that loves pain; because, after all, there is no doubt that running can be an awfully painful experience if you want it to be. Others might say that I’m running away from something, whether it is conscious or subconscious. On the contrary, I like to believe that I’m running towards something—towards an answer, towards fulfillment, towards redemption. We live complicated lives in an ever-changing complicated world. With all the negativity, stress, and hopelessness that engulfs us these days, whether it be personal—finances, work, politics—or cultural—mass shootings, climate change, politics—it’s surprising that we don’t all drive ourselves to insanity. And for me, that’s where running comes in. Some people choose drugs, whether prescription or non-, to alter their perception. I run. Some people spend large sums of money on unnecessary things. I run. Some people overindulge on empty calories that stimulate their taste buds. I run. Some people seek therapy. I run.

Twenty-seven miles ago, I was mad at the world; mostly things that I have absolutely no control over. But with each stride, they began to melt away. As my legs began to ache, my mind began to clear. As sweat rolled down my face, my worries began to disappear. As my skin began to chafe, my outlook began to brighten. Thoughts of hopelessness and helplessness slowly evolved into feelings of optimism and idealism. Doubt became confidence. Questions became answers.

And now, with three miles left of the trail, and a body on the verge of breaking down, I decide to take a short cut home. Sure, it’s not what I set out to do this morning, but I’m okay with that. I’m at peace with what I accomplished today. My body may be shot, but my spirit is soaring as high as it’s ever been. I am experiencing true nirvana. And remembering why I run.

                         

*While writing this piece, I became curious as to why the phrase “to high heaven” is commonly used when referring to bad smells. As it turns out, “heaven” is presumably very far away, so anything on Earth that can be smelled in heaven must be a strong odor—simple as that. The phrase may have originated in Shakespeare’s Hamlet when Hamlet’s uncle says: “O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon it, A brother’s murder.”