I hate running. If there was any
other type of exercise that would give me the tone and cardio running does, I’d
take it in a heartbeat. I’d even do yoga for God’s sake. But I’ve dabbled in
swimming, biking, climbing, even the elliptical – and although all of them are
more enjoyable than running, I have a terrible addiction to running. It’s the
kind of addiction that might sit latent and inactive for a few months, but then
return with a vengeance on one unassuming sunny day, and suddenly closet doors
fly open and old running shoes crusty with last year’s mud are brought out into
the open, and I throw them on without giving myself a chance to change my mind.
Because I will change it if I have the chance. I hate running.
Tonight Jordan came home late and
we decided to go running. I don’t mind it so much when I’m running with
someone. I ran all summer with my friend, the quarterback from my high school.
I was training for the Army, and apparently all the Army does is run, so I
really pushed myself, and when I couldn’t push myself, he would push me.
Literally. He would get behind me and run against me to push me when I wanted to
walk. I could finish 7 miles in an hour. Glory days.
I had that stupid cloud lingering
over my red, sweaty head throughout the run, the cloud of guilt. It doesn’t
help Jordan runs like the freaking Energizer bunny. I’m serious. He practically
prances. We stop at the sports fields outside of the UW gym to do push-ups,
crunches, and the like. It’s dark and the dew has set on the grass, so that
doesn’t make it any easier to work out. And then Jordan’s pumping out his
push-ups like a maniac, and I’m complaining about how much I used to work out
when I was preparing for the military, how I would lift and run and box and
hike and bike, and how toned my muscles were, and I’m all but begging him not
to judge me by my current abilities, but to just trust me when I say I used to
be some tough shit. I keep talking and squeaking out a few push-ups and
crunches, and he’s silently pounding out his routine with a look on his face
that belongs in a Gatorade commercial. And then I realize I sound just like people
I want to slap sometimes: the people that live in the dreams of their future or
in the success of their past to excuse themselves from the choice to make in
the present.
My choice is staring at me in the
face as I lie on the wet grass staring up at the few bright stars that are
visible behind Seattle’s haze. Either I try, or I don’t. It’s nice to chat with
Jordan while we run, and it’s funny to giggle as we do high skips across the
ground. But that’s not why I left the apartment building with my running shoes
on. I left to feel the wind in my lungs making my throat hoarse as I gasp for
breath; I left to push myself to my limit, and then show myself that I can go
beyond it; I left to bring my muscles to life and revert to the most basic of
human functions: movement, exertion, challenge, and accomplishment. But I’m not
accomplishing. Look at me. I’m weak. I can’t run three miles in thirty minutes;
I used to run that in less than twenty minutes back in high school. I can’t do
sixty push-ups; I used to do twice that on an incline with weights. What’s
wrong with me? I’m sure as hell Jordan doesn’t even believe me when I say I
used to train for the Army. I sure as hell know I wouldn’t believe me.
It’s the last mile. Mom used to say
to me back when I ran cross country that when you hit the point where you feel
that you can’t go on, run faster. It tricks your body and you hit what’s called
a second wind. Jordan and I are running through UW’s dark campus and we come to
six flights of stone stairs in a row. Last time I ran this with him, I walked
them. I won’t do that this time. I jump the first three steps in one dramatic
leap and Jordan keeps at my shoulder. I take the next nine steps in two’s. We
race across a bridge to the next two flights of stairs, and we take them, both
of us breathless but persistent. We don’t let ourselves stop. At the top of the
third flight, Jordan’s pulling ahead. My muscles scream. I can’t catch my
breath. I need to stop. I won’t stop. Halfway up the fourth flight, Jordan
fights to tell me he notices I’m not walking these steps. Like hell I’m not.
Almost there. It’s the fifth flight and my legs want to collapse under me. Run
faster. Tell yourself you can, and you can. God it hurts so bad. I peak the sixth
flight, but I don’t have time to feel victorious because there’s still another
half mile left until we’re back. I know Jordan expects me to slow down, but I’m
done making excuses. Success is a choice, not an opportunity. You want
something, you fight for it. I want to run, and I want to run well. I spread
out my stride on the downhill, and we’re coming back into town. I can hear him
running behind me and it bums the hell out of me that he’s hardly panting now.
Gosh I’ve lost so much in such a short time. Keep running. Look forward, not
backward. Success starts with the choice to give yourself everything you
possibly can to succeed. That means endurance. It means persistence. It means
focusing onto your dream, and letting go of whatever could hold you back. It
sounds like I’m preaching, and I hate preaching, but I guess I need to write
this for myself more than anyone else. It helps to just write it down.
I wish I could write this
melodramatic victorious finish where I sprint the end and joyously high five
Jordan and we go inside and drink kale and almond shakes and I take a nice
shower and relax content with my enduring battle. I did sprint the finish, and
sulked. Jordan high fived me and I reluctantly high fived him back. I took a
cold shower, and then sat solemnly at the kitchen table while Jordan graciously
made me a shake. Because I’m still human, and I sound like I’ve cracked the code
and figured it out, but even in this little accomplishment, I’m still comparing
myself to the past. I can’t help it.
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