Why I Run

A while ago, I read this comic about running by The Oatmeal. It made me think.

A few days ago, this article titled "OK, You're a Runner. Get Over It" was published in The Wall Street Journal. It irritated me.

For the past week, I've been laid up with a sprained ankle (obtained by falling gracefully down the stairs with a dying sigh), so I've grown increasingly irritated with my inability to throw on some shoes and go out for a run. Today, I decided to forget everything I ever learned about RICE in my four years of high school cross country and run to the local CVS to buy athletic tape for my ankle so I could actually walk down the stairs around campus without holding up traffic. Perfectly logical.

I made about halfway down The Hill before I felt like screaming. And then I kept running. I'm still not entirely sure why.

I joined my high school cross country team the summer before my freshman year. I threw a fit the night before my mother drove me to practice at 6:15 AM in the middle of my summer vacation. I hated running. Why did I have to join cross country? All they did was run.

But my brother had run cross country in high school. So of course I would run cross country in high school.

I went to practice.

I stopped halfway through the workout and pretended to tie my shoe so I could catch my breath. Several shirtless guys raced passed me, and I lost count of how many times I'd been lapped. I was incredibly embarrassed.

But I went to practice the next day. And the day after that. I learned that no matter how hard you try, your socks will get soaked if you run greens at six in the morning. I learned that little puddles won't kill you. I learned that mud might. I learned that it's okay to be left behind to run on your own--when else will you find the peace of empty streets in a bustling suburb? I learned that after a while, everyone running is hurting too bad to care how slow or fast you're going.

I ran my first two-mile race at the end of the summer to a whopping 18:47. I was so happy to have finished at all that I didn't care that my friends were running fourteens and fifteens.

Have you ever been to a cross country race?

It's really something. People line up, eyes straining to catch sight of the first pack, cheering as they flash through this human gauntlet. After most of the runners pass, the crowd thins out, but always, a faithful few remain for the stragglers, the one the coaches aren't yelling at.

I don't know what's better: being part of that crowd, or being that one last runner.

And so somehow, I started loving cross country. And running.

I don't think it's something meant for explanation. Running just becomes a part of you in weird ways, just like when you realize that car turn signals don't flash in time with the clicky noise they make and the world suddenly makes sense.

I know I certainly don't run to look good. I look awful when I run, shoulders hunched, giant knee braces pinching tiny knees above monstrous calf muscles. No. I definitely don't decide to go parade down the street with my thighs jiggling all over the place to look good.

But do I feel good?

Heck yes.