#6: I run because...

I’m in the thick of Fall Marathon Mania, as the majors and many of the major smaller races are upon us. This week, I closed Training Peaks and needed to get out of the weeds — on my running, and on my client’s running.  The closer the race gets, the further away the big picture can drift — the essential why. Today I needed to step back and mull the why of my running. To kick the emotional, mental, and spiritual tires, so to speak. The longer I do this work, the more I realize the inner chassis has to be rock solid for the running to be a thoroughly joyous affair. Life is too short to have this running thing feel like a “should.” 

My writing teacher gave us a prompt recently — the prompt was “I (insert your own word) because …”  The “I run because” list I’m sharing grew from that.  Maybe you’ll do your own “I run because” list! And if you do, I’d love for you to share it with me! 

I run because I was told I wasn’t good at sports. It took 40 years of being a “secret” runner to connect to that little girl who didn’t move on the soccer field. To realize that she froze on that field because she didn’t like the people she was playing with, not because she wasn’t good at it. That’s why she walked away, and I can do so, too. 

I run because it’s radical and revolutionary to do so. It’s an act of defiance to my schedule, the expectations of “women my age,” a flipping the bird to people who swear it will ruin my knees. 

I run because it’s the only thing in my whole life that’s been a consistent throughline. 

I run because while I am stiff and awkward in my body, running makes me feel like it’s all connected from the inside out. 

I run because it reminds me how I change and I’m allowed to change and grow, sometimes in unexpected ways. I can do something different, I can do the same thing differently. I used to want to run for time and now I simply want to run forever. And that can change, too.

I run because I feel like God is present in sweat. 

I run because I was told I wasn’t good at anything and I couldn’t be a writer because it wouldn’t pay the rent and I have to accept getting older means everything hurts. Each time my foot hits the pavement I realize the absurdity of placing weight in what others think, believe, and do in relation to me. I realize the freedom of accepting the conditions of the moment. 

I run because it forces me to practice radical acceptance when all I want to practice is radical avoidance. 

I run because, through writing about running, I have finally realized I’ve been so busy trying to be better that I’ve simply forgotten how to be.

I run because I stopped for a while because it felt bad when my estrogen went on permanent vacation. Then running felt ok again, but it wasn’t what it used to be. I have to keep wrestling the demons of old into their little nooks and crannies so I can run now. While I appreciate the now, I am wistful of how I used to feel. It’s ok to have my running be different than what it was. By striving for what it was, I can’t let what it is emerge. Or what it can be. 

I run because it keeps me sane at a baseline level, the bumblebees of anxiety have somewhere to go. It gets me out of the hive of my thinking brain, it keeps the menopause blues away, and it always makes me feel better. I have never, ever regretted a run. (Decisions I’ve made about my running, like running a marathon on a broken foot? Yes, I regret those. But decisions about running aren’t about the run, as running and the run are different.) 

I run because it always brings me home to the essential me and aerates who I am at the same time. 

These are what make up the rim of my current running wheel. If running is the act at the center of the wheel, and my “I run because” is the rim around the hub, it is the spokes — the spoke of sleep, nutrition, hydration, how I talk to myself, how I gauge my effort, the gear I wear, my relationship with my watch —that connect the soul reasons and the practicality of the running. The strength of the rim AND the steadiness of the spokes keep that running hub humming along.