Why I Run

“Why do you run?” they say. “Doesn’t it hurt?” they say.

I can’t help asking myself these questions as I change out of my pjs this Saturday morning into my tight running outfit. It’s long run day. All the pain of last week’s nine miles comes flooding back into my mind with such vividness that I lay back in my bed one last time with a sigh. I glance at my watch: 8:00 am. If I don’t leave soon, the California sun will make the next hour unbearable. I stand up to grab some food before I go. I slap some jam on a slice of toast and nibble on a banana. As I chew I hate myself for allowing these lazy, cowardly thoughts of not wanting to run, and I try to will them away. But they don’t go away. They never do.

I can’t procrastinate any more. I get up and pull on my running shoes, the right one mud-splattered from that stupid mud puddle I ran through yesterday. I tie the laces with experienced hands, and the loops go around and stretch until I feel them tighten around my foot, and I give a tiny yank and secure them. I step outside and the sunlight hits my face threateningly, as if to say, “If you don’t go now I’ll burn you alive.”

I go around to the gate to leave when my lazy brain sneers, “Better do some warmup drills so you don’t get injured!” I usually do the skips and swings and stretches and such ten minutes into my run, but I remember the queer look that little girl gave me yesterday as I walked with my toes pointed in like a crazy elf creeping around, and I decide to get them over with in the safety of my yard. Is it just me or does the sun feel hotter already? It beams down with such strength, a challenge. Me against the sun.

I breathe in the fresh morning air once more and my lungs prepare themselves for the rough hour to come. I creak open the gate and step out onto the driveway. “Beep!” my watch calls happily, warming up to its favorite time of day, and I begin to run.

My shoes patter along the greenbelt path, and my knees beg for a softer surface. I move onto the grass beside the path, and the soft padding absorbs the shockwaves each step sends up my body. My knees sigh in relief. I keep my eyes on the ground before me, for every bump is a twisted ankle waiting to happen. I’ve rolled my ankles too many times to go down that easily. My body falls into a rhythm with my feet, my breathing, and my pumping arms. My stomach squirms as it complains about the rushed breakfast, but my brain shuts it up fast.

The path turns to dirt, and the small chunks of rock crunch beneath my feet. I look out at the pond to the west, shimmering in the sunlight. A spectacle on its own. And then there are the geese flying in perfect V-formation to benefit from the wind drafts of the flock. I know this run would be full of laughs and excitement if my friends were beside me, but today I don’t mind being alone. I wonder if the geese ever fly alone, too. I can notice so many new things when I am out here, even if I know this route like the back of my hand, which I do.

The clouds look delightfully fluffy this morning, the sky piercingly blue. The wind rustles the trees gently, and the leaves glint with excitement and sparkle like the glassy surface of the lake. It is a perfect day for a run.

My watch beeps, signaling one mile, reminding me that it’s still there. My feet continue on in an endless rhythm, and I think about how pleasant of a sound it is. It reminds me of my purring cat, and the thought brings a smile to my lips. I see somebody approaching me on the other side of the path, first a blurry reminder that I need to get my eyes checked. She transforms into a pink sweater and red wooly hat-wearing old lady, who calls out a cheerful “hi” as I pass. A wave of warmth, good warmth (and not the kind that sucks the energy from me as I run in the heat) passes over me and I return her greeting. I am glad we passed into each other’s lives just then, and although she will not remember me in five minutes, I know that this small, everyday encounter has made my day just a little bit brighter. But as we continue on our opposite ways, I can’t help but wonder how she is not sweating waterfalls in her winter wear on such a warm summer morning.

I am aware of my heart now, and it jumps in my chest as if on a trampoline. When I think about it too hard I worry about it cracking my ribs and leaping out one day, but I hope that today is not the day. Running is so rhythmic, I think. This is why people claim it is the most boring activity one could do. I guess they’re not wrong. But if I hadn’t come out to run, would I have met the little old lady in her wooly clothes or felt the thrill of my pounding heart, or seen the geese flap in graceful harmony, and be filled with the overwhelming feeling that in this instant, the world is just right? No, I would be lying in bed, thinking about how I don’t want to get up and face the tasks of the day. And even though I may be happily asleep in my bed, I feel sorry for the version of myself in that alternate universe who is not me right here, right now.

Beep! As mile two comes and goes, my legs feel a little lighter, my breath comes a little easier, and my heart dances pleasantly within my chest. I feel at ease, as if I could ramble along this road forever, my whole being at equilibrium. I cross the street and enter the shade of the olive tree grove. The first thing that hits me is the smell. It is the smell of my hometown and comfort and memories and squashed olives. Hundreds of magnificent curly trees stretch their limbs to each other to form a tunnel through which I run. Squirrels play tag along the base of a tree, their tiny hands clacking against the tree trunk. A golden retriever races to catch up with me from behind, and trots along for a few seconds before falling back at the whistle of its owner. I continue on.

I pass the great black cows, and they let out long, sorrowful moos. I return their calls, of course. We have come to be good friends over the years, although I feel as if I could do without inhaling the putrid stench of manure. I ponder this, and I come to the conclusion that the cows, smell and all, is just a part of my run, and I don’t really mind it. I am a cowtown girl, after all.

Beep! Three miles down. Technically, I could turn back now and still have done a long run. But I’m just getting to the good part! Just a little longer, I tell myself, and there’s no one in the world who can stop me now.

There is the vineyard to my left, the rows stretched out for as far as the eye can see. On my right, in a few seconds I should be able to see the brief but spectacular view between two giant trees. A few more paces, and there it is. A splash of color: the blue sky with cotton clouds against the hills that look like tall mountains down here in the valley, and the lush meadow covering the earth for miles between me and them. And in the middle of all this beauty, a neon blue porta potty. I almost laugh. It sticks out like a sore thumb. Well, I think, you never know when you might need one out here.

Finally, I reach the creek. The trail along the creek is dusty and hot, but by now I am lost in my running rhythm, and these things do not bother me much. Left or right? Right. I veer off towards the direction my gut tells me along the dry grasses on the path. The solid road is now completely gone. I feel as though I am the only human in the whole wide world. A bunny hops into my path, then scurries away, alarmed. A crow caws in the distance.

Beep! Four miles. Had I been sweating this much before? As a bead of sweat drips off my ponytail onto my arm, I realize how thirsty I am. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth pitifully, and the sun is laughing.

There is a drinking fountain up ahead. I pause my watch and it chimes disapprovingly. I press my hot fingers to the button, and the water shoots up (more like trickles, as water fountains always do) and I gulp down the lukewarm water tastily. My friends would have detested it, but to me it is perfect. I like my water not too cold when I run; it goes down smoothly and doesn’t hit me like a rock when it plummets into my stomach. It is so sweet, for the rest of me is so salty. I splash water onto my dripping face. My legs begin to ache, and I know I can’t stay in this small oasis for too long or I will lose my carefully built rhythm. I take a final gulp, wipe off my face with my already damp shirt, and head on my way.

I turn back now; my body is ready to go home. I take the same path home as I did coming here, but everything looks different going the other direction and under the now more direct light of the sun. I am looking away from it now, and it licks the backs of my legs and burns my black hair. My eyes no longer squint, and my burning cheeks can cool.

Beep! Five miles.

Beep! Six. They fly by as my legs power my body forward. I don’t tell my body to move anymore. It knows exactly what to do, and in fact I would have to command it to stop rather than go.

Beep! Seven. I am almost home, and my shins throb. Shin splints dare me to rest and lie down, but I am too close to stop now. I am soaked with sweat, and there are distinct dark patches on my shirt. I am sure people see them, but I don’t care. I am almost home. Just a half mile now. A fresh glass of milk awaits me when I get back. A cool shower. As much water to drink as my heart desires.

I am almost home.

Beep! Eight. Just a quarter mile left. A stretch of straight path, along the pond. The geese welcome me back with their joyful honking. My sock feels uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I am almost home. I am almost home. Am I miserable? No, don’t think about that. It is a beautiful day. Hoooonk. There are turtles in the pond, sunbathing on the branch that sticks upward, out of the pond. It certainly is a good day for that. The sun… is it really trying to kill me? Honk! Hoonk! The cries of the geese reach a crescendo as I turn the corner onto my street. Think of the milk, and the water, and the shower, and of knowing that I did it… I am approaching my house, and I do a final kick and dash up the driveway.

Beeep! My watch calls triumphantly, and I head inside.

I sit down at the table, where my half-eaten toast looks up at me. It feels like hours ago that I had hurriedly thrust it into my mouth in a desperate attempt to obtain some energy for the workout to come. I bite into it, and the cold toast and strawberry jam fills my dry mouth with unimaginable deliciousness. There is nothing like a post-run snack, I decide.

As I chug down my milk, I realize that running does hurt. It’s really not very pleasant when I think about it. I understand why people despise it, but I can’t help feeling like they must be missing something. Because while I am out there, sweaty, tired, gasping and thirsty, there are moments that only running lets me experience. Sights and smells and physical sensations and just raw feelings that I can’t get onto paper. Seemingly little things. And I wouldn’t give them up for the world.