Running Amok

Why I Run

So the thing is, I love running. And so much of the time, I hate it. The flames of this love are fanned by a really good run. On Sunday I had a great time, ran over an hour, felt stronger the second half than the first, and finished feeling great. The great run only seems to happen often enough to reignite the sputtering flames just before they die out.  In between great runs, there a few good runs, which lately means I felt okay during the run and finished feeling glad I hung in there. There are also the okay runs, during which I may have to cheat and take a few walk breaks for or so, but feel guilty and wimpy for that. Then there are the not-so-good runs. The not-so-good runs are times I can't stand running and wonder what madness made me attempt this ridiculous activity in the first place, and hating myself on weak, rubbery legs as snails pass me by. The truly awful runs are the ones that never happen because I quit 3 minutes in, or 10 minutes in, or halfway through.

It strikes me as odd that I feel so compelled to keep up running at these times. Given that not-so-good and okay runs happen more often than the good ones. Certainly much more than the great times. What is it about running that addicts me, keeps me donkey-stubborn tied to the trail when oftentimes it would be so much more enjoyable to take a nice walk with my husband, or sit in a cafe and stuff my face with a chocolate croissant (my weakness), or put my feet up and have a nice margarita by the spa (a girl can dream, can't she?). Heck, sometimes a poke in the eye sounds a lot better than running when I'm running and hating every minute (yes that happens. sadly too often). And I wonder why I do this to myself.

Running has not improved my life so very much. It hasn't helped me with weight loss (at least not in the past two years). I don't feel younger, or spryer (is that even a word?) or more flexible. I've got even more freckles and moles now on my limbs than I had before, and am not loving this bonus for my skin.  It eats up way too much time now that we live where we have to drive to a trail to run, because after two months of hurting knees, I simply cannot do the hills around my house. Sometimes it seems like it eats up half the weekend, and many Saturday and Sunday mornings I would like to just be lazy and stay home and watch a family movie.

Yet you hardly ever have to drag me out the door. The main time I am reluctant to go is when it gets dark and I get more and more tired as the day wears on dealing with young children, so that a post-dinner run, at least during the wintertime, sounds as appealing as a cold bath. I just don't have the energy by then. As long as it's sometime in the relative morning, the first half of the day, at least before total darkness, I can't wait to run.

What's wrong with me?

Many times while running I am passed by what I think of as the real runners. You know, tanned, sweaty persons, with a great physique, their eyes fixed on the horizon, listening to their itunes, running purposefully, (and MUCH faster than I), toward their unseen goal. Often I envy them. You'd think being not-a-real runner would give me another reason to quit. I don't love it. It gives me another reason to feel inadequate and down about myself, which I do often enough anyway. Who needs another reason to feel bad? I dislike comparing myself to others, yet with as many people out for a run on the weekends, the trail invites it.

Why do this to myself? Perhaps I really SHOULD quit running. Or quit fooling myself that I can call what I'm doing "going for a run."

But quitting is unthinkable. And it's not because I'm good. I don't think it's the endorphins. Considering how often a hopeful run turns into a slog, I'm not getting much in the way of a runners high most weeks. Yet there's virtually never a time I  regret finishing a run. I'm always glad I hung in there, even on the not-so-good and okay days. And it's not usually because I finished strong, or felt awesome along the way.

Running definitely helps with stress. My family gets it by now, as they've seen Mommy the Cranky emerge when I go too long without running. It does give me energy sometimes, though honestly, much of the time I feel tired and relieved to be done.

Just when I've had a bad run of running, several weeks when it basically sucks, out of nowhere a great run comes along and smacks me upside the head with a reminder. Oh THIS is why I'm out here. No, a great run every three months is not the reason. The few and far between endorphin rush can't be credited. Feeling strong every once in a while, or not hating the run by itself is not worth the 3-4 times a week effort. I don't know the reason for this love-hate-run relationship when sparks rarely fly.

But when I feel the world open up before me with the spacious sense: I CAN do this, I AM  doing this, and I am HERE. Then I feel strong, graceful, alive, present. The horizon calls to me with a song only I can hear, and seems to go on forever.

Things slide into perspective then, and though I still cannot put my finger on the power of running, I know that I too, must go on.