There is a picture of me as a tiny tyke, clad in a dope Nike tracksuit, a matching cotton sweatband on my forehead, my white-blonde hair flying back and upwards while I run enthusiastically at an angle to the camera. On my abdomen is a race bib numbered 244 and my face is alight in a concentrated joy, my mouth agape with that hint of mischief and dogged determination that are still my hallmarks. Knowing this sequence of photos well, I recall that there are others where I am held lovingly by my father and grandfather, they too in 80s-era running garb and race numbers.
Running, and the love for suffering that accompanies it, is in my blood. Papa was a frequent marathoner even right up until his untimely death and Pops a standout cross country and track champion that later branched out into Ironman triathlons and those sort of adventure races now commonplace but then solely the province of fringe lunatics. A formative memory was watching my dad compete in the most depressing race I have ever witnessed or even contemplated – a 12-hour race around only a gray cinder track under gray skies, a circle of doom and agony in which I also strangely longed to participate.
These two men were, are, and will always be my exemplars and I inevitably and happily followed in their literal footsteps as I entered a series of fun runs and 5Ks and 10Ks. The State Parks Summer Run Series on Long Island was a particular highlight, traveling around to enter the same races as Pops, simultaneously awaiting and dreading those warm Wednesday nights. I loved the atmosphere and the accomplishment, but was also plagued by bouts of nerves as I fretted over my upcoming performance. Still – awash in the afterglow of a race well run, I would sit down to our family’s post-race picnics and feel peaceful and content as I chomped on cold roast chicken and apples.
I played team sports as I got older, but my lack of athletic coordination rendered me mediocre at best, especially in comparison to my friends, who were jocks through and through. As I entered a huge Georgia high school at which I knew not a soul, I decided to join the cross-country team as an opportunity to meet at least one friend and to tap back into my earlier love for running. It was successful on both counts – I had a great crew of compadres and was immersed into the running world, also doing track in the spring, even going to running camp one summer, which is about as nerdy as it sounds. Even though I was not very good, my natural penchant for leadership made me captain my senior year.
Genetics gave me the ideal physiology for running, but cerebral to a fault, I was hindered by a pattern of severely overanalyzing tactics, a weak mentality failing to allow me to push sufficiently through the pain. Pops would run alongside the course barriers, imploring me to just stop thinking and run. Written that way, it sounds oppressive, but his encouragements were dead on and from a place of deep love. He knew me, he knew what was holding me back. I had not yet attained the ability to harness my mind for my own benefit; it was a wild frontier of pulsing thoughts and self-doubt.
I rowed at Dartmouth, thinking it would be an escape from running, having put in so many miles that I was bored and burnt out. Instead, I think we ran more than the cross-country team, our training the type of masochism that suited me perfectly. Once I left college, I stopped running, having turned to the bike and at least trying to take my legal studies somewhat seriously. That was a generally fallow period for my fitness, overindulgence and the lack of regular exercise contributing to a general physical decline.
Once I moved to the Valley, it was critical to get back in fighting shape, but it was still mountain biking that had me enraptured. Indeed, I was staunchly anti-running and anti-hiking, completely in thrall of the thrills and spills of riding. It was not until a couple of summers ago, ensconced in a city, that I tentatively got back into running, it being the only realistic form of regular outdoor cardiovascular exercise in that locale. From those first steps, my entire running history came flooding back, carried on the back of those addictive endorphins. Every day, I would run blissfully through the streets of Paris, in rain or shine, beaming.
Back home, running was relegated as a mistress to biking, what I believed to be my one true love. But, in activity and not as in romance, polygamy is completely acceptable. Last summer, I again went deep on running, joining run clubs, doing track workouts, entering races again. Returning to the mountains, I bought trail running shoes and for the first time in my fifteen years in Edwards, I looked forward to long, slow, arduous forays on the rocky paths with which we are blessed.
Now making Barcelona my home for most of this summer, I am not restarting but merely continuing my resurgent running obsession. Instead of the creaking bones and aching back of putting back on the trainers, I am already in a solid zone of competence. Finally, my genetics and my psyche have aligned. I no longer let my brain be my enemy. I have learned to transcend the pain, to push myself, to lock into a Zen state in which nothing matters but the steady repeat of my stride.
Running in a crowded city is akin to trail running, the dangers of rock and roots replaced by ambling pedestrians and reckless taxi drivers. Agility is a critical skill as I weave and dodge and jump and try not to get too lost. But the physical challenge is secondary to the mentality, a wellspring of gratitude for my time living this beautiful life. As the kilometers pile on, I am increasingly filled with a radiant ecstasy, seemingly impervious to the ills of the world.
Even sweating and breathing hard, I find myself permanently with a wide grin, a smile for miles. I am aware of, and even encouraged by, the bewildered stares of passerby as I sing at the top of my lungs, shirt drenched in humidity, fairly cackling as I fly by. If this is crazy, then I don’t ever want to be sane.