I wish I could say that I enjoyed running. Or failing that, that I’ve come to enjoy running. After all, running is not only associated with health and fitness, but a whole slew of admirable character traits: self-discipline, dedication, endurance.
But I don’t like running, not if I’m really honest with myself (and anyone else reading this.)
There was a time when I did. While I was a twentysomething in Washington, DC, one of my colleagues urged me to give it a try. So I did. I started with short distances, 2-3 miles along the Potomac River in Georgetown, accompanied by another coworker who was also a beginning runner. And I found, to my surprise, that I could. We weren’t fast, and we didn’t go far, but we were at least competent. That spring, on a chilly March morning, I finished my first 5K. And like Forrest Gump, I just kept going.
D.C. is an easy city to run in. It’s flat. It’s scenic. The winters, while cold, lacked the Lake Effect snowfall that I grew up with. And there was no shortage of races.
Here my running followed the expected trajectory: I got better at it, so I could go further, and as I progressed, I found I enjoyed it more, so I did it more. And the virtuous circle continued: 5Ks, 10Ks, the Cherry Blossom, the Army Ten Miler (twice), the Baltimore Half Marathon. Even then, I wasn’t really fast – my best times were sub-11 minute miles – but still, I was doing it.
Sadly, the good times didn’t continue. I moved from my Capitol Hill apartment to a house in the suburbs. My body was the same age, same condition, but my surroundings weren’t. I ran but it wasn’t the same. Also, the injuries started. First a MCL tear while hiking in Scotland. I recovered, after months of PT, but it was nearly a year before I ran again. Then a motorcycle accident. Tendonitis. A sprained ankle. Most recently, a torn hamstring. And of course, age. Add in a few chronic health conditions and running looks – and feels – very different for me now.
Instead of putting on my shoes, cueing up my iPod, and going out for a 10-mile jog in DC, my routine is something like this: a few hours before heading out, take a shot of Pepto Bismol. Take another one immediately before beginning the jog. Stretch copiously. Pack a few Pepto tablets to take with me. Jog slowly, carefully, with small strides to avoid aggravating any previous injuries. A mile or so in, my shins will begin to protest and will probably become increasingly painful the longer I continue.
I will eek out a distance of 3-4 miles. It will be agonizingly slow, Afterwards, I’ll be lightheaded and spent. I might pop a few Advil. I’ll likely throw some ice on my legs later that night.
And I will ask myself: Is it worth it? Is it worth putting so much mental and physical effort into an activity that often doesn’t feel like a release, but instead another obligation on my already lengthy list? Into something that has become not just challenging, but downright hard, with little likelihood of improving? In American culture, we tolerate mediocrity if it’s a stepping stone to improvement. Not so much it it’s the end state.
Even as I write this, I want to protest, “I’m not lazy! I still give a damn about my health.” And that is true. I bike, I swim, I do yoga. Sometimes I break out my free weights. I take my dog for walks.
And yet, even as my rational mind tells me there is no shame is saying adios to running, I won’t quite give it up. Perhaps it is stubbornness. I don’t want to admit that I can’t physically do something anymore. Or perhaps a bit of pride. Yes, I’m an awful runner. But I’m still doing it. Surely that must count for something?
For an activity often lauded for bringing clarity and freeing up one’s headspace, running sure brings up a lot of questions for me. I don’t know the answers. But I do know there’s a run tomorrow night, and chances are, I’ll be there.