Running is hard.
The problem isn’t that I find it physically
difficult—though, to be fair, I do. But usually a combination of Kate
Nash, endorphins, and the desire to exercise without paying a monthly
membership fee pull me through.
No, running is hard for a much more benevolent reason—the
same reason, really, that I write so rarely.
I love it.
In college, I never saw this problem coming. In college, the
loves and passions of life were cultivated on moments stolen from homework, my
job, internships, and, well, my other job.
In college, I dreamed of having hours to devote to the
pursuits that inspired pure bliss.
Six months after graduation, though, I have this to
report: I can barely get myself to do any of it. I have the hours, but the
devotion bit? Bafflingly hard to come by.
That’s not to say that the thrill was entirely in the chase.
I still love, for example, every step of writing this blog.
The pen and paper step. The step where I send it
to Jane and she laughs and asks me if I've been reading Elizabethan literature
lately. And the resulting last step: trying to write like I’m
capable of conversation.
Then
there’s the absolute terror of posting—and, finally, the peeks through the
cracks between my fingers as a bizarre and lovely realization washes over me: people
actually read this.
The
moments of difficulty and terror are a nonissue, then, because the whole time,
my love for this shit fuels me.
Running,
though. Running is an entirely different matter.
Difference
No. 1: I am a terrible runner.
Seriously,
I run like a bear. I've recently begun running like a slightly lighter bear,
which I consider a major milestone, running-wise, but the whole ursine thing?
Probably not dissolving anytime soon.
Related
side note—to the guy who takes up the entire goddamn sidewalk while texting:
Come on, man. Please just move. IT’S NOT LIKE YOU CAN’T HEAR MY ASS COMING.
Anyway.
Difference No. 2 relates to the nature of the risk.
When
I write, the risks are mainly rejection and apathy—powerful, but conquerable
with a healthy dose of knowing you don’t have anything to lose.
When
I run, there’s a very real possibility of physical injury.
For
instance, a run a few weeks ago began in typical fashion: stated otherwise, for
the first 10 minutes, I felt like I was going to die.
But
then the 10 minutes passed, and I realized nothing but the run even mattered.
I felt
light. I felt giddy. I felt like a little kid—like I was playing.
And
then I felt something else.
My
knees, hands and forearms slamming into the cracked pavement of University
Street.*
As I
lay there, prostrate and bleeding, I realized that I lacked both (a) any idea
what to do, and (b) the desire to be on the ground anymore.
There
was only one thing to do, really—the only thing any of us can do when we
totally eat shit doing something we love.
I
got up and kept running.
 |
| *boom |
