On the run

If you run, you’ve probably had someone ask you... what are you running from? An old joke, and not particularly funny. Especially not funny if you are, in fact, running from something.

I used to think I couldn’t run. Couldn’t learn, didn’t want to, why bother? I cited a variety of reasons for my unwillingness to pick up speed. My legs are short and ill-suited to running. The bouncing is too hard on my chest. I swallowed a bug. Anything to avoid it.The truth is, running was hard for me to do. And sometimes it’s easier to avoid the hard thing than it is to deal with it.

Flashback to high school gym class. Everyone is awkward but I imagine that I am the most uncomfortable in my cotton t-shirt and gym shorts. The mile run test is the bane of my existence. The teacher directs us out past the soccer field beside the school, to a small wooded trail where the bad kids go to smoke cigarettes at lunchtime. Run through this trail, out to the road, and back to the parking lot, he tells us. Then he saunters off, a hulk of a man who only runs after a football if there’s no one else to do it for him. Minutes after the start, our feet pounding the soggy ground, I’m left behind, huffing and puffing, lungs burning, face red from embarrassment and exertion. And each year, this is where I vow that I will never run as a grown-up.

Years later, then, it is a cruel irony to find that I am dating a runner. Not just any runner, either. A competitive varsity athlete. My usual excuses are to no avail. I tell him I’m perfectly happy with yoga. One day he gives me a beginner’s running book. I tell him I’d rather swim. He asks if I’d like to go for a run with him for company. The jig, as they say, is up.

Finally one quiet morning, I pull on my sneakers and tie them tight. It’s as if each tug on the laces is another moment to change my mind and go back to bed. Except I don’t. I look at the book, check my stopwatch, and head out onto the road. For days and days and weeks and weeks I repeat this ritual, and each time it feels a little easier. Then it starts to feel good.

Looking back I think I just didn’t understand that good feeling - the wind against your face and the rhythmic sound of panting breath and pounding feet. The feeling of power in your legs and the vibration in your thighs as you propel yourself forward, away.

I admit that I have been a fair weather runner. In the winter I hunkered down in cycling classrooms and on elliptical machines, hiding from the frosty air and pedaling frantically for nowhere. My spring began with the painful reclamation of the running rhythm. I thought that maybe I’d rather stick to my indoor cycling and just run occasionally, when I felt like it. Maybe once a week, for about 5 kilometres. That would be enough to maintain.

But lately, the urge to run has been so strong that it terrifies me. Also, I want to run alone. I flatly refuse invitations of companionship. I pace the apartment in agitation, staring out the window as if I expect a hoard of people clad in short shorts and running shoes to arrive and drag me out of the house. I pull on my own shorts and tank top even though my legs are exhausted from walking all day. I hobble out the door and up the street, keeping pace with whatever song is playing through my earphones. I listen to my breath and squint my eyes to avoid the blowing dust. I run until my lungs burn and my legs are unsteady. I run down street after street until I forget where I am. I run up hills that cause me to shriek silently at the pain. I run until I feel my lungs will explode. I hold my knees, gasping for air, and then start again. I think of nothing but the motion of my body. I force myself to go home after half an hour, throw myself down on the grass in the backyard and stare at the sky, wishing I had the energy to keep running. I stretch my legs and rub my shins, willing them to carry me back to the street.

And now I understand the question so much better. Because I think my compulsive urge to run is psychically rooted in the fight or flight response. At the moment I choose flight, like a cornered animal keen on self-preservation. The run is a daily battle to bend my limitations to my will. When the body fails, the mind pushes on. So lately, even when I haven’t been running, I’ve been running.

Defeated at last, I hobble back into the apartment, and placate my anxious mind with a hot shower. I’ll try again tomorrow. And the day after. As long as it takes for this feeling to pass.