Going Nowhere
During the summer of 2008 I spent a large amount of time on my mother’s couch in Iowa. Fresh off a break up I was very much at sea and didn’t know what to do with myself, so I fell back onto the old reliable habits: eating snacks and watching TV. It just so happened that the Summer Olympics were on that year while I was in Iowa, so I laid around watching people be athletic while I ate fistfuls of Cheezits.
It was while watching the marathon that madness came over me. It was towards the end of the race and the majority of the footage they showed was of the woman who was out front and likely to win the race. As I recall she looked calm, focused, and certain of herself and her abilities - everything that I was not feeling at the time. I watched her with great awe and then thought one of the dumbest thoughts that has ever occurred to me:
“I could run a marathon…”
The thought crossed my mind and was rapidly followed by images of myself in four years time magically transformed from the schlubby couch gremlin to a sleek, gazelle-like runner, pounding the pavement with my fellow marathoners in the 2012 Olympics. This was not just a daydream, I actually managed to convince myself that I could do this.
The thought slowly faded over the next few days between grunting to heave myself off the couch, shoveling more Cheezits into my face, and getting out of breath walking up and down the stairs. Probably running a marathon was not in the cards for me. I chalked it up to a desperate grab for something to hold onto post break up and moved on with my life.
I actually kind of hate running. I have done ever since school when they would make us run a timed mile each year as part of the Presidential Fitness test. Evidently every president in office during my time in public school was very interested in how fast I could run a mile. Answer: not very fast. Many thanks to Presidents Bush, Clinton, and W. Bush for helping me point out to all of my classmates how very bad I am at running. Really appreciate your contributions to all of the gym class bullying. Great work.
Despite the bad memories of gym class, every few years I get it into my head that I really should start running. It always starts as a desire to increase my cardio health and stamina, but it eventually morphs into these delusional visions of myself finishing a 5k, a 10k, a half-marathon. Which is so bizarre because, as mentioned, I do not even like running. In reality the most exciting part of the prospect of running a long distance race is the excuse to carbo-load. (Legitimately carbo-load…I manage to carbo-load without reason on a regular schedule.)
There is something about running though, or, in my case, trying to run. In this existence where almost nothing is within one’s control, following a running program feels like taking back a tiny portion of control. I get to decide when I run, where I run, what I wear and what I listen to while I do it. Every time I finish a workout I get satisfaction out of having completed something. I feel one step closer to running a little bit faster or further next time. And every time I’m sweaty or sore or tired I know it is because of something that I chose to do for myself.
My dad is a sailor. In his previous house he had a little sign that said, “Sailing: the fine art of getting wet and becoming ill while slowly going nowhere at great expense.” That definition is rife with futility, yet it’s a hobby that he’d never give up. For all the money, energy, sweat, and sometimes blood that goes into boatbuilding and sailing, the benefits and the joy far outweigh the expense even when you do end up going nowhere.
I’m not sure there is any joy in the actual act of running. If there is I haven’t found it yet. But there is something about running that keeps me coming back. I start, I try for awhile, eventually I give up, and then I start again. I run, I sweat, I ache, I accidentally inhale bugs, and I sweat some more, all while effectively going nowhere. There is little to no point in the whole affair, yet it pulls me back every time. I find it all confounding.
Today I have a list of things I need to do: a couple of little things for work, make banana bread out of the overly ripe bananas in my kitchen, work on the puzzle that’s been on my table since January, clean the bathroom. Each of these things has a purpose - I know why I’m doing them. But then come 6:00 I know I will lace up my sneakers, cue up my running playlist, and step out the door. About 45 minutes later I will return looking like the victim of a dunk tank and feeling disgusting. And I will wonder why I do this to myself. I will have gone absolutely nowhere at the great expense of time, sweat, and bath products, shin pain and muscle soreness. There is no purpose to a run, at least not an immediate one. But the simple act of making a decision for myself, striving towards a goal that will satisfy no one but me, checking off another workout on the list - that is deeply satisfying.
Running: the act of putting one foot in front of the other over and over again even when you kind of hate it and go absolutely nowhere for the satisfaction of doing something just for you. (And for the president, because for some reason they are deeply invested in the running ability of all citizens.)
