Running has its equal share of advocates and detractors. Some of my non-running friends find it to be needlessly tiring. Others seem to view it merely as a form of cardio, one component in a real athlete’s exercise routine. And unless you’re a marathoner or engaged in a race*1, people feel that it lacks the spirit of competition that defines most sports. In other words, they don’t see the point.
I’m hesitant to tell them the truth, that running puts me more in touch with reality. Enthusiasm for other sports are less abstract and don’t require an explanation or any existential rationale for participation. So if I’m ostensibly bats for running in the first place, I’m even kookier for trying to ascribe some value to it, a hobby that encourages one to isolate himself and but doesn’t force to compete or collaborate with others.
I guess it’s easy to pigeonhole things this way, at least in my case. I had abandoned sports sometime during middle school*2 and was basically inert throughout high school*3 and part of college. And when I finally decided to start moving again, I chose a sport that lacked the important social qualities of teamwork, competition, good sportsmanship, etc.
Running saved me the way reading did. Reading wasn’t really a hobby, initially, the way watching TV isn’t considered a hobby. I read to be entertained; a book’s sole purpose was to tell a good story. But as I read more, I realized how much of an impact these books had. Even the activity itself—the intense concentration on something, the need to ignore distractions—had a purpose. I was alone and yet I felt connected to the world around me, removed from the cage of my own mind.
To say I feel the same way about running sounds a bit pretentious, perhaps even disingenuous. During a run, when I reach the state where I’m not focusing intently on my own body, my mind tends to wander, but I’m not tangled up in petty concerns. And at other times, my mind is simply blank. Maybe I’m striving for something beyond the physical nature of sport, something more than just a ‘good run’ and/or good-day-at-the-gym sort of thing. I think I’m searching for that same redemptive power that literature offers, that tacit promise that I can escape myself.
In a sense, some might see me as running away from everything. But when I try writing about it, I feel like I’m running towards something. Maybe the next step is turning off my headphones and attuning my ears to what’s around me, to find out exactly what that thing is.
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*1 I’ve only raced one time since I started running, which was a quick 50 yard dash against Steve D. on Pine Swamp Road in Cumberland, RI. In an act of hubris, he smoked a cigarette after narrowly beating me at the end. This only reaffirmed my belief that I was a long distance runner.
*2 After failing to make to the North Cumberland Middle School basketball team.
*3 With the exception of Flag Football for three of those years (with the Original Gangstas, the K-Rex Struts, and the Reaganauts, respectively), where a greater emphasis was placed on fun instead of athletic prowess.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
01-27-10: Will You Stay Awhile, Until The Feeling's Gone
Choosing an appropriate album for a run is a painstaking task. My iPod is inundated with donated/pirated music, a fair chunk of it stuff I’ve never listened to before. But picking something new is a risky decision, so I usually opt for the familiar stuff. Today, I quickly scrolled through my iPod until I landed on “Scars” from Basement Jaxx. It was a hasty, lazy pick, as I had listened to it yesterday, but I needed something reliable to boost me.
The weather was in my favor, another balmy, 70-something degree winter day. But I couldn’t seem to get things started. I can only describe it as my body refusing to charge. Ten minutes in and the run became a perfunctory activity, another banal, absent-minded ritual like making the bed or putting out the trash. It felt like I was glossing over the run or drifting through it. I envisioned a sweat-soaked shirt as the only evidence of a run ever taking place. I figured it's been this recent day-to-day malaise, sucking the soul from enjoyable things
It’s true, not every time is special. But still, even ostensibly boring runs can have their moments. I mean, where was the motivation for me to continue? I thought my choice of music might be responsible, too recently ingrained for me to pay attention to. Still, it wasn’t like the time I put on “Astralweeks” during a run in DC.*1 At least this was a congruous choice.
Back in the day, when running was still a novelty and hadn’t managed to charm me, running for more than five minutes at a time was difficult. I can honestly say that it was the music that initially pushed me forward. There was the day I nearly maxed out on a treadmill, having reached a moderate speed for roughly 25 minutes. When I thought I was completely drained, Vitalic’s “Newman” burst through my headphones. The song pushed me for an additional ten minutes.
I must’ve been patient enough today, because the moment came when “Twerk” started to play. The song is quintessential Basement Jaxx, a furious track that will either make you dance or induce a seizure. And when it came on, I couldn’t distinguish between the pulse of the song and my body. That—the stride and song in tandem—is my raison d’être. I was anxiously awaiting it, and yet it still surprised me.
----------------------------------------------
*1 About ten seconds into the album I knew I had made a bad choice, yet I stubbornly refused to switch music until it ended. I know, dumb.
The weather was in my favor, another balmy, 70-something degree winter day. But I couldn’t seem to get things started. I can only describe it as my body refusing to charge. Ten minutes in and the run became a perfunctory activity, another banal, absent-minded ritual like making the bed or putting out the trash. It felt like I was glossing over the run or drifting through it. I envisioned a sweat-soaked shirt as the only evidence of a run ever taking place. I figured it's been this recent day-to-day malaise, sucking the soul from enjoyable things
It’s true, not every time is special. But still, even ostensibly boring runs can have their moments. I mean, where was the motivation for me to continue? I thought my choice of music might be responsible, too recently ingrained for me to pay attention to. Still, it wasn’t like the time I put on “Astralweeks” during a run in DC.*1 At least this was a congruous choice.
Back in the day, when running was still a novelty and hadn’t managed to charm me, running for more than five minutes at a time was difficult. I can honestly say that it was the music that initially pushed me forward. There was the day I nearly maxed out on a treadmill, having reached a moderate speed for roughly 25 minutes. When I thought I was completely drained, Vitalic’s “Newman” burst through my headphones. The song pushed me for an additional ten minutes.
I must’ve been patient enough today, because the moment came when “Twerk” started to play. The song is quintessential Basement Jaxx, a furious track that will either make you dance or induce a seizure. And when it came on, I couldn’t distinguish between the pulse of the song and my body. That—the stride and song in tandem—is my raison d’être. I was anxiously awaiting it, and yet it still surprised me.
----------------------------------------------
*1 About ten seconds into the album I knew I had made a bad choice, yet I stubbornly refused to switch music until it ended. I know, dumb.
Monday, January 25, 2010
A Look Back: My Personal (Truncated) Boston Marathon
Before you go, stretch. Place your hands on the wall and extend one leg back so it looks like you’re trying to push the building. Switch to the other leg. Now pull each leg up behind you with both hands, as if you were trying to conceal it like a gift. Then, with your legs a little more than shoulder’s width apart, shift your weight from side-to-side. Check everything: cell phone in left hand, apartment keys smothered by your right, headphones plugged in. Start the music and you’re ready.
It officially starts when you cross the Boylston/Tremont intersection, heading west. Dodge the homeless in front of Dunkin Donuts and the students in front of the Emerson dorms. If you recognize someone or if they recognize you, acknowledge them with a slight nod or three fingered wave with the right hand, but do not stop to chat. For a more circuitous route, circle around the Common once, but then head directly back to Boylston. Try to beat the signal at Charles. Don’t worry though, because you can skirt across horizontally and start running on the right side of traffic.
Turn up your headphones. Next, the rich mothers and their baby strollers. Weave through the families by the Trinity Church. The homeless are probably out of the way, but watch out for the skaters. In a few days, you’ll be heading in a similar direction, branching off when you hit Huntington to hit up Shaw’s for your bi-weekly grocery trip. Admire the cluster of the old churches, the BPL, and the Weston. Chances are that you’re at another stop signal, so make sure to jog in place. You’ll look silly, like you’re trying to scrape something off your heels with your ass, but don’t be self-conscious. Just press on when the light changes.
Here is when things get going. Suddenly, your limbs are assured, your breathing is metronomic, your head is up and confidently looking ahead. The surrounding sites—the Pru, the high-end seafood restaurants, the cocktail lounges—start to blur. But the wire from your headphones catches on something—a parking meter, a passerby. Things pull back into focus, like reemerging from slumber and back into reality. Plug your headphones back in and keep going.
You’ve reached Berklee. Boylston feels like it ends here, even though it actually extends through Fenway. This intersection with Mass Ave is the edge, as if Boston doesn’t continue further west. There’s an appeal of running along the edge of something, so you perpetuate this delusion to give yourself that energy, that drive. Hang a right on Mass Ave and kiss the edge, except when you approach the Harvard Bridge—which actually does extend beyond the Boston border—spiral down the ramp at the start of the bridge.
On the Esplanade, you’ll encounter some different obstacles: bikers, rollerbladers, old couples powerwalking. Fitter mothers push a stroller while they jog, post-college working girls drag their dogs. Most notably, fitter people are running. Sweat makes their bodies glisten in the sun as it drips into the lines of their musculature. They appear prettier and better than you. But pay close attention, because you tend to miss the less-than-fit individuals exercising too. Point being that all walks of life come out here to enjoy this: the sun, the water, the city. Remember that this isn’t a contest with others. Deflect the self-doubts and absorb the energy from the sun and light breeze. Follow the path and hit every detour, each loop and curlicue. Do it correctly and you won’t feel the urge to stop and rest on the dock by the water, not matter how appealing it might seem.
The path on the Esplanade ends abruptly, despite how much you’d like to run towards the Interstate. Fatigue sets in, but your body is operating on autopilot. Cut through the parking lot and run along the entrance side of the hospital/rehab facility/whatever; you’re not sure what it is and you’ll probably never know. Find Merrimac and ride it til you actually do reach the Interstate. Don’t play dumb this time around: wait for the signal. Only then can you peacefully run alongside Cross, through the cobbled portion of the North End. Cross turns into Atlantic without you even realizing it. The sun is less powerful now. Treat yourself to a run down the wharf by the Aquarium, always making sure to flash a smile at the families and cynical twentysomethings that glare or shout at you. Feel free to try and beat the signals. Flip the bird at any car that was nowhere close enough to hitting you.
South Station. Look down the Summer Street bridge to spot the office where you work. Don’t shudder, because though you’ll be back soon, they’ve treated you well and you’ve got no reason to complain about them. Instead, graze the side of South Station and find an opening to get over to Essex. You’re almost there. Run through Chinatown as fast as you can, even if there are herds of people. The putrid smell makes your nose tingle, but only if you linger on it. Magically, Boylston begins again and you are home. Slow your pace to a trudge. Pat yourself on the back as you imagine the giant half circle you’ve carved out around your city.
Stop in front of your apartment complex and pause your music. Breathe. You don’t need to remind yourself of your other obligations for right now, as if you could conjure them up anyway. Just think about that shower, and look forward to repeating your day’s work tomorrow.
It officially starts when you cross the Boylston/Tremont intersection, heading west. Dodge the homeless in front of Dunkin Donuts and the students in front of the Emerson dorms. If you recognize someone or if they recognize you, acknowledge them with a slight nod or three fingered wave with the right hand, but do not stop to chat. For a more circuitous route, circle around the Common once, but then head directly back to Boylston. Try to beat the signal at Charles. Don’t worry though, because you can skirt across horizontally and start running on the right side of traffic.
Turn up your headphones. Next, the rich mothers and their baby strollers. Weave through the families by the Trinity Church. The homeless are probably out of the way, but watch out for the skaters. In a few days, you’ll be heading in a similar direction, branching off when you hit Huntington to hit up Shaw’s for your bi-weekly grocery trip. Admire the cluster of the old churches, the BPL, and the Weston. Chances are that you’re at another stop signal, so make sure to jog in place. You’ll look silly, like you’re trying to scrape something off your heels with your ass, but don’t be self-conscious. Just press on when the light changes.
Here is when things get going. Suddenly, your limbs are assured, your breathing is metronomic, your head is up and confidently looking ahead. The surrounding sites—the Pru, the high-end seafood restaurants, the cocktail lounges—start to blur. But the wire from your headphones catches on something—a parking meter, a passerby. Things pull back into focus, like reemerging from slumber and back into reality. Plug your headphones back in and keep going.
You’ve reached Berklee. Boylston feels like it ends here, even though it actually extends through Fenway. This intersection with Mass Ave is the edge, as if Boston doesn’t continue further west. There’s an appeal of running along the edge of something, so you perpetuate this delusion to give yourself that energy, that drive. Hang a right on Mass Ave and kiss the edge, except when you approach the Harvard Bridge—which actually does extend beyond the Boston border—spiral down the ramp at the start of the bridge.
On the Esplanade, you’ll encounter some different obstacles: bikers, rollerbladers, old couples powerwalking. Fitter mothers push a stroller while they jog, post-college working girls drag their dogs. Most notably, fitter people are running. Sweat makes their bodies glisten in the sun as it drips into the lines of their musculature. They appear prettier and better than you. But pay close attention, because you tend to miss the less-than-fit individuals exercising too. Point being that all walks of life come out here to enjoy this: the sun, the water, the city. Remember that this isn’t a contest with others. Deflect the self-doubts and absorb the energy from the sun and light breeze. Follow the path and hit every detour, each loop and curlicue. Do it correctly and you won’t feel the urge to stop and rest on the dock by the water, not matter how appealing it might seem.
The path on the Esplanade ends abruptly, despite how much you’d like to run towards the Interstate. Fatigue sets in, but your body is operating on autopilot. Cut through the parking lot and run along the entrance side of the hospital/rehab facility/whatever; you’re not sure what it is and you’ll probably never know. Find Merrimac and ride it til you actually do reach the Interstate. Don’t play dumb this time around: wait for the signal. Only then can you peacefully run alongside Cross, through the cobbled portion of the North End. Cross turns into Atlantic without you even realizing it. The sun is less powerful now. Treat yourself to a run down the wharf by the Aquarium, always making sure to flash a smile at the families and cynical twentysomethings that glare or shout at you. Feel free to try and beat the signals. Flip the bird at any car that was nowhere close enough to hitting you.
South Station. Look down the Summer Street bridge to spot the office where you work. Don’t shudder, because though you’ll be back soon, they’ve treated you well and you’ve got no reason to complain about them. Instead, graze the side of South Station and find an opening to get over to Essex. You’re almost there. Run through Chinatown as fast as you can, even if there are herds of people. The putrid smell makes your nose tingle, but only if you linger on it. Magically, Boylston begins again and you are home. Slow your pace to a trudge. Pat yourself on the back as you imagine the giant half circle you’ve carved out around your city.
Stop in front of your apartment complex and pause your music. Breathe. You don’t need to remind yourself of your other obligations for right now, as if you could conjure them up anyway. Just think about that shower, and look forward to repeating your day’s work tomorrow.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
01-21-10: Friends and Family
Jared tends to coordinate his outfits whenever he goes to the gym. He has an orange, blue, and white Knicks-themed ensemble as well as a dark blue, green, and black Timberwolves combination. For this particular gym session he wore his white and crimson St. John’s uniform.*1 He prepares himself the way a popular girl might primp herself for the homecoming dance, spending time in front of the mirror to make sure everything is just right; the legs are clean-shaven, his shoulder-bicep tattoo sleeve*2 is visibly unobstructed.
It’s been sort of difficult for us to relate to each other, me and my brother. Our only commonality is the gym and although we usually head there together, we conduct our workouts independently. I’ve found it increasingly difficult to interact with him. For the most part, I’ve put the emotional baggage behind me and forgiven him for the things he’s done to me in the past, but now even talking to him is challenging. Maybe it’s all the drugs, illegal and prescriptive, that have fried his brain or numbed his senses, but he can’t seem to handle a regular conversation with me. If he doesn’t contribute, he goes off on tangents or rambles incoherently, usually resulting in something that offends a normal person’s sensibility.*3
Jared and I split off when we arrived at Planet Fitness. He headed to the locker room while I found a vacant treadmill at the front of the cardio section. Running inside doesn’t invigorate me the way a trip outside does. The idea of tracking your distance and pace is appealing, but it devolves into an act of hubris. I find that I make furtive glances at the calorie count, as if that was the way to measure a ‘good run.’
Things started off well. I began at a fast pace, steadily increasing the rate to a 7 minute mile. But I felt like I was going to hit a wall. I was winded and my lunch from earlier seemed to be gurgling in my throat. I tried distracting myself from my body. My eyes glossed over the eight televisions hovering just out of reach. I looked at the other runners in my proximity and caught glimpses of that cute girl.*4 The technique seemed to work.
As my mind wandered from my body, I thought about the phone I had just before leaving for the gym. It was an old friend I knew during high school. Though we hadn’t spoken together in years, the conversation was casual. I caught him up on my story*5 before he told me what he had been up to: living in Providence, working for an insurance company, collaborating on some writing projects.
For the most part, our conversation was pleasant, like the way conversation on a date seems to cover everything and nothing, from our hopes and dreams to the everyday banalities. We talked about movies, writing, and old friends. And then he warned me that he was about to drop something heavy on me, which made sense as to why he called me, though I was still anxious as to what he was going to tell me. Apparently he thought that I thought he wasn’t good enough to be my friend, and the call was a sort of test to verify if his assessment was accurate. But after our talk, he concluded that he had misinterpreted something from the past, and he was glad that we spoke. The feeling was mutual.
A cramp pierced my left side near my kidney. It had been awhile since I felt something like that during a run. I wondered if it was because of the time I ate or if I wasn’t breathing right and not getting enough air. It never occurred to me to research some things about running, considering how much time I’ve invested in it. I winced as I raised my head. My brother was pulling a set of weights, making a similar face to mine. With the cute girl gone and less people around me, I felt like Jared and I were the only two people left.
“Sometimes friends drift apart,” I had told my friend. But I felt like his call had somehow proven me wrong. After all, he was trying to keep us connected. The call might have been for his benefit, a way to gain a sense of closure, but I was the one that was moved. Because there was nothing at stake, both of us still living our lives, and yet he pursued the thing he felt compelled to do. I guess I was touched by his effort, a determination I wish I had for connecting with my brother.
After wards, Jared asked me how things went. ‘Good,’ was my one word response, but I asked him how his workout went.
“Good. I’m figuring out how to work the different muscle groups I’m learning about in school,” he said.
“Maybe you can teach me some of the exercises the next time we go,” I requested.
“Sure,” he said. And for the time being, that was enough for me. I know that we’ll probably continue to fight, that I’ll never quite be able to understand what goes on his head, but I can continue trying to figure it out.
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*1 I will never be able to accept St. John’s University as anything but my brother’s favorite college basketball team, mainly due to his arbitrary and unwavering love for them. For over a decade, he has used their “Red Storm” team name for various online aliases.
*2 A demon with a samurai sword through its head, a dragon, and a black sunset (I think).
*3 i.e., “I know more about gums than a dentist”; “A raped pregnant woman only has to deal with psychological pain”; “Sticking this pen in any of her orifices can get it wet”; etc.
*4 A tall, slender brunette, her hair invariably pulled in a ponytail, sporting either a red t-shirt or baby blue tank top, always the tiny, black shorts.
*5 Please refer to paragraph two of blog entry "1-20-10 / An Introduction."
It’s been sort of difficult for us to relate to each other, me and my brother. Our only commonality is the gym and although we usually head there together, we conduct our workouts independently. I’ve found it increasingly difficult to interact with him. For the most part, I’ve put the emotional baggage behind me and forgiven him for the things he’s done to me in the past, but now even talking to him is challenging. Maybe it’s all the drugs, illegal and prescriptive, that have fried his brain or numbed his senses, but he can’t seem to handle a regular conversation with me. If he doesn’t contribute, he goes off on tangents or rambles incoherently, usually resulting in something that offends a normal person’s sensibility.*3
Jared and I split off when we arrived at Planet Fitness. He headed to the locker room while I found a vacant treadmill at the front of the cardio section. Running inside doesn’t invigorate me the way a trip outside does. The idea of tracking your distance and pace is appealing, but it devolves into an act of hubris. I find that I make furtive glances at the calorie count, as if that was the way to measure a ‘good run.’
Things started off well. I began at a fast pace, steadily increasing the rate to a 7 minute mile. But I felt like I was going to hit a wall. I was winded and my lunch from earlier seemed to be gurgling in my throat. I tried distracting myself from my body. My eyes glossed over the eight televisions hovering just out of reach. I looked at the other runners in my proximity and caught glimpses of that cute girl.*4 The technique seemed to work.
As my mind wandered from my body, I thought about the phone I had just before leaving for the gym. It was an old friend I knew during high school. Though we hadn’t spoken together in years, the conversation was casual. I caught him up on my story*5 before he told me what he had been up to: living in Providence, working for an insurance company, collaborating on some writing projects.
For the most part, our conversation was pleasant, like the way conversation on a date seems to cover everything and nothing, from our hopes and dreams to the everyday banalities. We talked about movies, writing, and old friends. And then he warned me that he was about to drop something heavy on me, which made sense as to why he called me, though I was still anxious as to what he was going to tell me. Apparently he thought that I thought he wasn’t good enough to be my friend, and the call was a sort of test to verify if his assessment was accurate. But after our talk, he concluded that he had misinterpreted something from the past, and he was glad that we spoke. The feeling was mutual.
A cramp pierced my left side near my kidney. It had been awhile since I felt something like that during a run. I wondered if it was because of the time I ate or if I wasn’t breathing right and not getting enough air. It never occurred to me to research some things about running, considering how much time I’ve invested in it. I winced as I raised my head. My brother was pulling a set of weights, making a similar face to mine. With the cute girl gone and less people around me, I felt like Jared and I were the only two people left.
“Sometimes friends drift apart,” I had told my friend. But I felt like his call had somehow proven me wrong. After all, he was trying to keep us connected. The call might have been for his benefit, a way to gain a sense of closure, but I was the one that was moved. Because there was nothing at stake, both of us still living our lives, and yet he pursued the thing he felt compelled to do. I guess I was touched by his effort, a determination I wish I had for connecting with my brother.
After wards, Jared asked me how things went. ‘Good,’ was my one word response, but I asked him how his workout went.
“Good. I’m figuring out how to work the different muscle groups I’m learning about in school,” he said.
“Maybe you can teach me some of the exercises the next time we go,” I requested.
“Sure,” he said. And for the time being, that was enough for me. I know that we’ll probably continue to fight, that I’ll never quite be able to understand what goes on his head, but I can continue trying to figure it out.
-------------------------------------------------------
*1 I will never be able to accept St. John’s University as anything but my brother’s favorite college basketball team, mainly due to his arbitrary and unwavering love for them. For over a decade, he has used their “Red Storm” team name for various online aliases.
*2 A demon with a samurai sword through its head, a dragon, and a black sunset (I think).
*3 i.e., “I know more about gums than a dentist”; “A raped pregnant woman only has to deal with psychological pain”; “Sticking this pen in any of her orifices can get it wet”; etc.
*4 A tall, slender brunette, her hair invariably pulled in a ponytail, sporting either a red t-shirt or baby blue tank top, always the tiny, black shorts.
*5 Please refer to paragraph two of blog entry "1-20-10 / An Introduction."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
01-20-10 / An Introduction
How It Started
A little over two years ago, I started running as a response to life’s common ailments: loneliness, ennui, and ontological despair. My girlfriend had recently dumped me and I was essentially friendless, a feeling perpetuated by living alone. There was only one year left of college and I was still grappling for something to pursue in my life. I spent most of my time in my studio apartment, combating my worries with cable TV, books, and the internet. Winter break would’ve been the same routine minus the discipline of class and homework, and I feared this meant that I was destined to become agoraphobic. Initially, running was a way to get out, but it eventually grew into something that I love.
Now, I’ve started a blog about running for similar reasons: loneliness, ennui, and ontological despair. I finished college, and after some time in Boston and DC, I recently moved back in with my parents. My brother lives here too, and he’s the only peer I know in central Florida.*1 I’m still unemployed and trying to find a way to save some money for a summer publishing course at Columbia in NYC. I find solace in the familiar tools—books, internet, and cable TV. And though I might have a degree in writing, I find that I haven’t written that much, abandoning my journal and blog and various stories and essays. Combining my two interests—writing and running—seemed like a good way to start over.
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The Run
I know very little about Florida, and that includes my own neighborhood. It’s a large, middle/upper middle class development, the bourgeois version of the neighborhood in “Edward Scissorhands.” The only portion familiar to me is the route to my house, a 1.2 mile path that stems from the entrance to a sort of roundabout, with my street being the second turn. It feels like the end of the development, though I know the other roads shoot off and lead towards other roundabouts. Knowing that I’m more of a vertex than an endpoint makes me feel even more alienated in this suburban hellhole.
After applying for more jobs this morning and further studying the Late Night Television wars, I felt the urge to hit the gym. However, Pops took the car to run some errands. I slipped off my jeans and slid into my shorts, put on the new Los Campesinos! LP, and began my run in the sun. I retraced the 1.2 mile course towards the entrance, passing the tennis-cum-basketball court on my right and the clubhouse-cum-pool on my left. When I reached the end*2 I hung a right towards the other, mysterious entrance to my development. Though I had never been through this part before, it still struck me as familiar. I remembered that there are only a couple variations on the styles of houses here. I experienced an uncomfortable, paradoxical moment, having felt like I ran forever but gotten nowhere.
Nothing stayed in my mind for more than a few seconds during my exercise. I tried to parse the English-accented lyrics of “Romance is Boring,” but got distracted by the smell of recycled water farting from the sprinklers. Then I thought about how useless I felt, and I extrapolated on my fear from there: could I find a job?; could I find the job?; would I get to Columbia or even make it to NYC?; would I manage to get out of Florida? Focusing on these things usually tends to aggravate my already overwhelming anxieties, but I knew I could count on the run for helping me alleviate these constant worries. For roughly an hour and a few trips along the 1.2 mile driveway, I broke through my own head. The solipsistic emphasis on the self seemed to melt off from the sun. The mind can’t compare to the body mid-run, the rapid pulse of the heart, the dull, pleasurable pain in the legs, the salty sweat dripping from the corners of the mouth.
Even after two plus years of running, my body will sometimes try to tell me it’s too tired and that it’s had enough. So when my pace started to slack, I looked to my arm band and increased the volume on my iPod. In these instances I feel like I can push through anything, and though I may feel like I have little control over the rest of the things in my life, I felt powerful today. I picked up the speed and looked straight ahead. I’m reminded again: this is why I continue to run.
I slowed to a trot when I got close to my house. All the bad stuff was inside, the domestic drama and the severe boredom and loneliness. Not wanting to face it all again, I hoped the “runner’s high” would linger on, long after I ripped off my clothes and showered off the sweat, into the night. Thankfully, by writing about it, I feel a different achievement. I’ve put aside my self-consciousness for a moment, somehow managing to tap out some words and form some sentences that are usually too painstaking to produce. And now I wonder why it took me so long to link these ideas—my love for running and my desire to write.
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*1 Because of our complicated relationship, labeling him as ‘my friend’ seems like a dubious term. I’d say we’re more like estranged brothers that happen to live under the same roof.
*2 The road in my development intersects with 419, one of the five major roads I can (probably) identify in central Florida.
A little over two years ago, I started running as a response to life’s common ailments: loneliness, ennui, and ontological despair. My girlfriend had recently dumped me and I was essentially friendless, a feeling perpetuated by living alone. There was only one year left of college and I was still grappling for something to pursue in my life. I spent most of my time in my studio apartment, combating my worries with cable TV, books, and the internet. Winter break would’ve been the same routine minus the discipline of class and homework, and I feared this meant that I was destined to become agoraphobic. Initially, running was a way to get out, but it eventually grew into something that I love.
Now, I’ve started a blog about running for similar reasons: loneliness, ennui, and ontological despair. I finished college, and after some time in Boston and DC, I recently moved back in with my parents. My brother lives here too, and he’s the only peer I know in central Florida.*1 I’m still unemployed and trying to find a way to save some money for a summer publishing course at Columbia in NYC. I find solace in the familiar tools—books, internet, and cable TV. And though I might have a degree in writing, I find that I haven’t written that much, abandoning my journal and blog and various stories and essays. Combining my two interests—writing and running—seemed like a good way to start over.
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The Run
I know very little about Florida, and that includes my own neighborhood. It’s a large, middle/upper middle class development, the bourgeois version of the neighborhood in “Edward Scissorhands.” The only portion familiar to me is the route to my house, a 1.2 mile path that stems from the entrance to a sort of roundabout, with my street being the second turn. It feels like the end of the development, though I know the other roads shoot off and lead towards other roundabouts. Knowing that I’m more of a vertex than an endpoint makes me feel even more alienated in this suburban hellhole.
After applying for more jobs this morning and further studying the Late Night Television wars, I felt the urge to hit the gym. However, Pops took the car to run some errands. I slipped off my jeans and slid into my shorts, put on the new Los Campesinos! LP, and began my run in the sun. I retraced the 1.2 mile course towards the entrance, passing the tennis-cum-basketball court on my right and the clubhouse-cum-pool on my left. When I reached the end*2 I hung a right towards the other, mysterious entrance to my development. Though I had never been through this part before, it still struck me as familiar. I remembered that there are only a couple variations on the styles of houses here. I experienced an uncomfortable, paradoxical moment, having felt like I ran forever but gotten nowhere.
Nothing stayed in my mind for more than a few seconds during my exercise. I tried to parse the English-accented lyrics of “Romance is Boring,” but got distracted by the smell of recycled water farting from the sprinklers. Then I thought about how useless I felt, and I extrapolated on my fear from there: could I find a job?; could I find the job?; would I get to Columbia or even make it to NYC?; would I manage to get out of Florida? Focusing on these things usually tends to aggravate my already overwhelming anxieties, but I knew I could count on the run for helping me alleviate these constant worries. For roughly an hour and a few trips along the 1.2 mile driveway, I broke through my own head. The solipsistic emphasis on the self seemed to melt off from the sun. The mind can’t compare to the body mid-run, the rapid pulse of the heart, the dull, pleasurable pain in the legs, the salty sweat dripping from the corners of the mouth.
Even after two plus years of running, my body will sometimes try to tell me it’s too tired and that it’s had enough. So when my pace started to slack, I looked to my arm band and increased the volume on my iPod. In these instances I feel like I can push through anything, and though I may feel like I have little control over the rest of the things in my life, I felt powerful today. I picked up the speed and looked straight ahead. I’m reminded again: this is why I continue to run.
I slowed to a trot when I got close to my house. All the bad stuff was inside, the domestic drama and the severe boredom and loneliness. Not wanting to face it all again, I hoped the “runner’s high” would linger on, long after I ripped off my clothes and showered off the sweat, into the night. Thankfully, by writing about it, I feel a different achievement. I’ve put aside my self-consciousness for a moment, somehow managing to tap out some words and form some sentences that are usually too painstaking to produce. And now I wonder why it took me so long to link these ideas—my love for running and my desire to write.
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*1 Because of our complicated relationship, labeling him as ‘my friend’ seems like a dubious term. I’d say we’re more like estranged brothers that happen to live under the same roof.
*2 The road in my development intersects with 419, one of the five major roads I can (probably) identify in central Florida.
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