I’d like to say my reasons for starting to run were out of a genuine desire for self improvement and accomplishment, but they weren’t, not at first. The Broad Street Run is one of those quintessential Philadelphia things that I vow to do every year (like visit the Liberty Bell) and somehow end up missing. This year, my desire to run was stoked by a competitive notion to beat a few others I knew who were running.
The others I knew who were tackling the race were, by my calculations, not nearly as well-equipped as I to run the race. They were overweight, older, and indulged in a pack-a-day habit. Anything they can do, I thought, I can most certainly to better, faster and with more skill. And so, I started training.
Running is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever set out to do. Instead of pummeling the (fat, old, chain-smoking) competition, I find myself bringing up the rear on the group runs and struggling to control my wind as I converse with my running partner.
The group I’ve joined will train for ten week using a program that combines runs of varying distances with cross-training. We receive weekly emails with words of encouragement and ample opportunities to ask the experts questions and receive consultations for what aches and pains us. What is missing, at least in my novice opinion, is steadfast advice on how to convince your mind to let your body run.
Every single run in the first three weeks of training was a struggle. Be it the weather, a sore something, or a marathon of “The Real Housewives of Wherever,” it was all too easy for my mind to justify not running. And though I can always dress for the weather, ice the sore something and unplug the TV, there were still days when my mind simply will not send the proper synapses to propel me from the couch. It would be this mass of muscle between my ears that’s most difficult to train. My battle will be waged on the willpower front.
The issue of my willpower is not exclusive to running. Running is just the most immediate challenge I’ve undertaken that has forced me to face the uncomfortable fact that in recent years, I’ve succumbed to mediocrity. The drive, determination, passion, whatever you want to call it, that carried me through my college years got lost after graduation. (I suspect it can be found somewhere in dark corner of a cubicle in the office where I now work nestled near my hopes, dreams and a dust bunny.)
I was hopeful that running would be a ten-week way to get my rear in gear in all aspects of my life. I hoped it would ease my anxiety while toning my muscles and I hoped that the increased blood flow would find its way to my brain and fill it with novel ideas. Literally.
As my feet pound the pavement, my mind tends to wander. The goal while running was for it to wander over scenes from the next great American novel. Sadly, no epically descriptive, Steinbeck-like lines about my surroundings and the human condition came to form, just a few lines from a song (“Well somebody told me that you had a boyfriend who looked like girlfriend that I had in February of last year…) or a motivational slogan I remember from my high school locker room will repeat over and over (TEAM: together everyone achieves more!).
As my body started to adjust to the runs and it got easier for my mind to allow it to do so, I was faced with yet another mental challenge: boredom. The fact that I say this perhaps means that I will never truly be a runner, but running is boring! It’s tedious and mundane and regimented. Training is cyclical: challenge, plateau, challenge, plateau over and over as the mileage increases. There is nowhere to go but forward. In the battle to convince my mind that it could run through the boredom, I tried many things.
Sometimes I counted my strides (that’s a fancy runner’s word for steps) and tried to calculate how many made up a mile and how many footsteps it would take me to run to specific destinations. The counting was a surprisingly good distraction: I become consumed in calculations—carry the one, divide by two, I before E except after C—that I forget the tedium of running.
Sometimes I tried to name things I passed in other languages. There were lots of portes, fenetres, and pieces of papier. Beyond that, I could remember only the curse words which were perfectly apt on certain runs.
I tired quickly of whatever music unable to find an artist that both pumped me up and could sustain a steady pace. I had great success listening to NPR (look it up, make a pledge) on some runs and reveled in the thought of working out my mind and body. Other days, it was not so effective. While listening to the history of how Italian food gained dominance in America I became so unconsciously hungry that I inadvertently ran to the grocery store.
As the weeks wore on, running became a sort of religious experience for me. In the beginning, there was a lot of praying. While running, I would pray for the strength to complete the distance and that no one I knew would see me throwing up into a dumpster behind the puppy park. I even prayed for God to make me a bird so I can fly far, far away. And when praying didn’t work, I start bargaining (like all good Christians). “Okay God, I recognize that I’ve strayed from the flock and will consider returning to it, if you’ll just give me the strength to finish this last ¾ of a mile.” Or, “for every pair of shoes I buy, I promise to donate the equivalent to a just cause if you’ll forever eradicate this side stitch that feels like Excalibur stabbing me in the spleen with each step I take.”
Sometimes, running was downright biblical.
There were times at the end of a run when I swear the heavens opened up and the choirs of angels descend upon the intersection for a rousing rendition of the Hallelujah chorus. These were moments of glorious redemption in which I felt light (headed) and at peace with the world. And though it’s usually interrupted by the impatient honk of a car horn trying to make a left turn through my adulation, arriving at the end of a workout is something for which I became sincerely grateful.
Since the beginning of my training, I noticed some physical changes. I can now pull my hairdryer from under the bathroom vanity without injuring a hamstring or sitting on the floor. The extra butt cheek that’s been increasing in mass on my outer thighs for some years appears to be shifting inward and upward to a more anatomically correct spot. Just the other day I remarked to my father that I enjoyed the pace of a two mile run and considered myself a competent two-miler which, prior to this training, would’ve been as odd as me rattling off the first hundred digits of pi.
While running, my left foot always lands harder than the right which led me to believe I might be lopsided. I worried for several days that this might impede upon my ability to progress. I also worried that others had noticed my lopsided gate and referred to me as “Weebles” behind my back.
Most curious is that while running, the thumb on my right hand seems to find comfort in standing erect and giving the “thumbs up” to everyone who passes. I have no idea why it feels compelled to share this universal sign of goodwill as it’s seldom an accurate reflection of what the rest of my tired, sweaty body feels. (That would be more accurately portrayed in the recreation of a toddler’s fit complete with kicking, sobbing, and all manner of hysterics.) The thumb is able to express such joy because it doesn’t have to do any real work, just go along for the ride my forearm and bicep provide. I’ve tried to contain its enthusiasm with the help of my other four fingers, but it inevitably finds its way back out to proudly salute the city as I trundle along.
My appetite, too, has changed. I have an insatiable desire for oranges and soda neither of which I previously cared much for. I also seem unable to properly digest dairy, which could be strictly coincidental. Much to the disappointment of Lance Armstrong and Michelob Ultra Light, I do not ever seek replenishment in the form of a frosty, alcoholic beverage. I do, however, often consider ingesting such beverages before running.
One of the coaches who organize group runs shared with a group of trainees the story of how each Christmas he and some of his friends would do a “Running of the Santa’s” bar run. He noted that each year the runs got shorter and the list of bars got longer. (This seemed to disappoint him.) The only time I’ve run drunk was in high school when we fled into the woods to avoid the exploratory light of flashlights being wielded by some party-busting police. It seemed to work out for me then, though I was younger and spurred on by the need for survival.
Once on a run when counting and listening could not fight off the cloud of boredom following me closer than my shadow, I imagined I was being chased. At first it was by a dog—a pit bull, I’m ashamed to admit—and then by an armed bandit. That latter didn’t flesh out well as an armed assailant was not likely to spend a lot of time in pursuit. I then for a moment imagined the police hot on my tail after a bank heist, but in a city such as mine, that scenario would play out nearly the same as the armed assailant. And then I had it: perhaps instead of pretending I was being chased, I would do the chasing! For two blocks I ran hard and fast, arms pumping, eyes focused, jaw clenched in sheer determination. For a moment I felt that elusive runner’s high—euphoric, light, and more sophisticated than the fuzzy, laze-inducing high of pot (or so I’ve heard…)—that carried me for another block and straight through a red light where I was nearly killed by a fast moving Prius. This close encounter ended the “chase sequence” portion of my training.
As evidenced by the Prius, running in the city requires focus. There are obstacles coming at you in all directions. The route, no matter how many times you’ve run it, is always unpredictable. There’s the overzealous mom jutting her stroller out into the crosswalk, the wayward plastic bag darting in and out of the air currents ready to wrap around a foot and send you tumbling to the ground, the death trap of an open bilco door, and the mini-van with Missouri tags driving the wrong way down a one-way. Some runs feel a lot like being a character in a video game recklessly launched forward by an operator struggling with the controller. In addition to these obstacles, the street signs and stop lights present challenges.
You think catching red lights while driving is annoying? Try running. If your stride is off even a miniscule amount, you will hit every red light. I’m not one of those runners who run in place when I catch the light. I’m the type of runner that at the red light drops my hands to my knees and gasps for air or wipes my nose on the sleeve of my shirt, or utilizes a nearby fire hydrant or light pole for a good stretch. These acts somehow feel less pretentious than running in place; more authentic.
Streets signs only serve to mock me when I run. When driving around lost just one wrong turn away from a complete panic attack, you can never find a directional sign, but as a runner, they stand proudly on each corner constant reminders of just how little ground I’ve covered and the endless road ahead. They’re like the coach you once had who offered little in the way of support and stood by arms crossed shaking their head in disappointment as you staggered across the finish line.
Beside the thrill of finishing a workout, there is another positive thing about running: the community. In running especially, misery loves company. There is camaraderie among runners. When you pass another runner, no matter what pace you’re both at, you smile or exchange a nod of recognition that says, “I know how it feels: the cramps, the highs, the lows. The devil that tells you you’ve done enough and the other that tells you to keep going. That damned ankle biter just down the way that’s never on a leash and the construction workers whose hooting and hollering makes you want to vomit more than the lactic acid that’s building up in your body.” It’s our version of a trucker’s honk, our dap.
Just when the runs were getting easier and I was to the point of outsmarting my own brain both in terms of motivation and boredom, I tweaked my knee coming down the steps in my apartment. For several days, I grinned and bared it applying the tenets of RICE—rest, ice, compression, elevation—that my mother had taught me. After the third day, when I couldn’t even find a comfortable position for my knee while fully reclined, I decided to self-diagnose. It’s the step all hypochondriacs take prior to consulting an actual expert.
A quick Google search indicated that the pain is likely ”Patellofemoral Pain Syndrome,” or “Runner’s Knee.” According to Runners World, Runner’s Knee, is the most common overuse injury for novice runners and afflicts more women than men. Satisfied with the diagnosis I read about treatment and prevention.
“At the first sign of pain, cut back your mileage. The sooner you lessen the knee’s workload, the faster healing begins. Avoid knee-bending activities, canted surfaces, and downward stairs and slopes until the pain subsides.” While a small part of me relished in the phrase “cut back your mileage” the other grimaced knowing the big day was now less than a month away. I made an appointment with a physical therapist.
I’m sure the disappointment was evident on my face as the young physical therapist who had just dug his fingers into my knee cap explained that I was indeed injured and in need of four weeks of therapy. He was very excited by my injury which I tried to take more as a sign of dedication to his job than an insult to my injury. He was less than optimistic about the ten mile run looming on the horizon.
I wouldn’t say that to run was a dream of mine, as I stated early on, it was more of a challenge born out of arrogrance and a competitive nature, but the diagnosis was a crushing disappointment. I understood for the first time the devastation world-class athletes express when diagnosed with an injury that foils their Olympic hopes, or worse, ends a career. I by no means compare my dabbling in the sport to their prowess, only use it as a way to express my new-found empathy and compassion for those dealt an unfortunate hand.
After a day (or three) of wallowing and RICEing, I was struck with a burning desire to get back out there. Somewhere between the struggle to get off the couch and the victory over my own brain, my motivation had returned. And now, having been restrained by the injury, it was pissed.
I’m looking forward to these weeks of therapy as an opportunity to work on my mechanics and improve upon the foundation that I’ve built. I already miss the challenge of that first mile when everything in my body creeks and cramps and cracks and that second mile that makes me appreciate the science and beauty of the human body in motion. I long for the unpredictable obstacles that will cross my path and knowing nod of a fellow runner. Most significantly, I long for those humbling moments of adversity and that swell of pride at moving past them. I look forward to these reminders of how far I’ve come and how capable I am of adapting to whatever lies ahead.
