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.